Being a Five Year Old

“Play is the highest form of research”

--Albert Einstein

 Now that we have plodded through a couple of phases of COVID re-openings, fifty-seven days of June, and a dozen or so senior parades, and socially distant graduations, it’s a proper summer.  Family corn hole games on the lawn, beach buckets, and BBQs are back again. As the pandemic progresses, every week brings some new item that's in short supply and high demand. Toilet paper, jigsaw puzzles, home gym equipment and so much else. Right now, kiddy pools are sold out almost everywhere. At my house, the TP is all stocked up, puzzles are lined up for the next bunch of rainy days, and I find myself turning to toys. Little kid toys. It’s like I’m five years old again.

Mr. Potato Head, Play-Doh, and Matchbox cars have all made an appearance in the last few weeks. The other night, when two friends came over for some backyard distantly social snacks, we pulled out craft kits and made plastic mermaid sun catchers, with stained glass gel paints.

Perhaps one good thing that could come from this pandemic is the return to the fun parts of our younger years. When my high school senior lost her last season of track, her senior awards night, her prom, and her job, refuge was found in coloring books and board games. Most people I know with Class of 2020 kids have said that watching them lose so many milestones, brought back their own memories of sweating it out on a football field in a polyester cap and gown, staying out until dawn on prom night, and having that last team dinner. I got to experience all of those events, but my daughter didn’t, and that is a real loss. When I graduated, the world was my oyster. I had college to look forward to, new people, travel, and so much more. I was going places. The Class of 2020? Quarantine and Zoom classes. Face masks and empty classrooms. Canceled plans and almost constant worry that their world will never be the same.  Is it any wonder that turning to the playthings of childhood would be a comfort?

Playtime doesn’t keep anyone safe, it usually doesn’t bring in a paycheck, but sometimes you just have to head for the toy box. Think about it. If you’re five years old, and the world isn’t teetering on its axis, one chest x-ray away from a corona-pocalypse, what makes you happy? Toys and food, most likely. Scraped a knee? Have a Freeze Pop. Having a bad day? Go play dollies and racecars. I’m way older than five, and confession time: I built a pug out of Legos this week and spent a few happy hours playing with Silly Sand. Also, they still make Super Elastic Bubble Plastic, in the tubes with the little straws. It still burns your lungs out, and it’s still wicked fun.

When my kids were little, I was the terrible mother that hated crafts. I never wanted to do activities with a whole bunch of little pieces that needed to be assembled. Paper chains, pipe cleaner caterpillars, and paint by number kits were all necessary evils, stashed away for snow days. When there was a five-year-old at my kitchen table, it was about fighting off the spread of glitter glue and crushed Oreos. These days it’s all about fighting off dread, fear, an invisible and insidious virus, a few creditors, and an Internet full of lies, damn lies, and statistics that I should shut off, but never quite manage to do. Maybe there is something to be said for putting away the adult worries, the job hunting, the Netflix binges, and sitting down to play with something.

Then I found it, this week’s little bit of happy fun time. I was in Marshall’s, a place I hadn’t been since February. Finally, I could return the blouse that didn’t go with the jeans that are now a wee bit too tight. On a clearance shelf was a tiny plastic space ship, a small bit of fake grass, and a magnetic cow. When you press on the little alien inside the UFO, the lights blink, the toy whistles, and then you wave it over the cow until the magnet activates and sucks Elsie right up. It even lets out a long “Mooooo” as she is whisked off to outer space. Does it get any better than that? I giggled like, well, a five-year-old with a fresh tube of glitter glue.

I have no answers about COVID-19. I cannot solve the racial issues that are everywhere, and just as illness-inducing as the virus. I can’t holler anymore at the news on TV; I’m going to barf up a vocal cord. What I can do, however, is take the time to pick up a stupid toy now and then and do some serious playing around. It won’t solve any of the big issues, but it will provide a few light moments. We all need more of those. Stay safe and play nice, OK?

The F Word

"If you want to conquer fear, don't sit home and think about it. Go out and get busy."

---Dale Carnegie

Fear is a mighty powerful emotion. It can make us act, but it can paralyze us as well. I'm not talking about the average everyday worries. Some people don't like to fly; others hate the dentist. I happen to love flying, for the most part, and my dentist is fantastic, but I say three Hail Marys on every flight I take, one before I get on, one at take-off and one when we land. Dr. Dara is terrific, but I still have to sit in my car for 10 minutes and psych myself up to go in every time I have an appointment. That's pretty normal, from what I've seen. It's the big stuff that's a problem. Illness. Financial ruin. Job loss. The death of a loved one, G-d forbid a child. Being scared is part of life, and we have to face our fears, or we'd never leave the house, right?

I write this column on Thursday nights since my deadline is Friday. As I sit here tonight, I'm hearing from neighbors about an accident near the end of my street. Alleged drunk driving. Who knows if that's really what happened, that is for law enforcement to decide. What terrifies me is that one of the cars involved was driven by a young woman, still a teen, out for a ride with friends and, allegedly, hit by a car who blew a stop sign. Again, that will all be sorted out through proper legal channels, as it should be. The facts will come to light, and everyone's rights and responsibilities will be handled.

However, for me, it's a knee-jerk response of fear and what ifs. I have kids in that age range, one is a new driver herself, as in just two weeks ago. I try not to be THAT mother. The smother mother, the one that won't let her kids out of her sight, the mom who spends years hovering like a Sikorsky over the sandbox and the classroom and prom night, etc. I want my kids to be independent and have adventures and good times and fun memories. What isn't part of that scenario is getting a phone call from one child, who heard about the accident, but was calmly asking me, "Are you guys home? Is Devin out? Are you all OK?" We all were, thankfully, and note to self, I guess I did an OK job raising a kid who cared enough to call and check in, but Holy Mary the Mother Blessed and Joseph the carpenter too, it's rattling, to say the least.

Fear is sometimes a knee-jerk response; it's hardwired in the brain. I've written dozens of science articles on exactly what happens and how, and yet, when I hear that a young person was scared and possibly hurt, because one minute she's out for a drive with friends and then next minute there's crumpled metal and broken glass around her, science isn't relevant. Fear creeps in, the what ifs take over and as a parent, I imagine that somewhere, another parent is getting a phone call that will scare the daylights out of them. Thankfully, that's a call that's never come to my home, but never say never, right?

When I was in high school, a good friend was crossing the street and was hit and killed by a drunk driver. One minute she was an average 16-year-old kid, laughing with friends, the next she was gone. I won't ever forget the look on her mom's face at the funeral. Yes, it's irrational. Yes, I wanted to take a shovel to the head of the person who hit her.  I still do. Who knows if this accident tonight was alcohol-related, I sure don't know that, but that's not the point. The point is that everything we hold dear can change in an instant. How the heck do we, as parents, as friends, as a community, deal with that? Boy, I sure don't know. Perhaps if I did, I wouldn't be wide awake right now, looking at baby pictures of my kids. Overkill, yes, for sure, but there you have it.

"Let's be careful out there" was a favorite line from Hill Street Blues, a cop show I watched with my dad, for years. He would say that to me every time I left the house, and mostly my eyes would roll so hard, I could see my brain. I get it now. The fear we feel as parents is likely never going away and I'm betting my dad knew that and also knew that telling me to be careful was no guarantee of anything. There's only so much we can do, as parents, but we have to keep doing it anyway. We are out there, being busy and trying our best. It's all there is, right?