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?

Let Them Eat Cake!

"Grow old along with me, the best is yet to be."

---Robert Browning

It's birthday season, at least in my world. If you do the math, a lot of friends and family of mine had parents who knew how to make the most of cold January nights and Valentine’s Day. From the end of September to mid-November I am continually sending a card, wishing someone a happy birthday or having cake.

I think I counted about a dozen or so birthdays in a six-week period and there are likely some I have forgotten. There is way too much cake happening right at my other favorite time of year, pumpkin whoopee pie season. Actually, pumpkin whoopie pies might be just at my house as well, since a good friend makes them. No, I won't tell you who; they're mine, all mine!

While most holidays other than Christmas or Thanksgiving are not that big a deal for me, I love me some birthdays. It's one day that is just yours. Well, unless you're a twin or triplet etc. You might have to share your day then, but there's at least one moment in every birthday that is exclusively yours. It's my belief that birthdays should be sacred. They should be about the person who's just completed another year. In our house, the birthday person gets to pick what's for dinner. No matter what, they get to decide and no one else's preferences matter. If the choice is pizza, the birthday honoree picks the place and the toppings, and everyone else can go hungry. Or eat cake. Not a bad deal, really.

There is a reason they put names on birthday cakes. It's to single out someone who, even just for five minutes, gets to be a rock star with a room full of adoring fans. In the UK they sing "For He's a Jolly Good Fellow" because I guess women don't have birthdays over there? And that song doesn't even mention a name; they could be talking about any fellow. The song "Happy Birthday To You," however, is customizable, even if your name is Vladimir or Millicent. It's also free to sing now, as a U.S. Federal court held that the song is officially out of the corporate clutches of Warner Brothers and safely in the public domain. 

I wonder if the date of that decision will become the birthday of the birthday song?  Many people don't like the attention focused on them, especially if it's sung by the underwhelmed wait staff at a restaurant, all of whom probably have to sing it to strangers several times a day, and yet, it's still something that brings out the little kid in all of us. Don't tell me you never say, "cha cha cha" between verses, or add lyrics, we've all done it.

Now that so much happens in the world of social media, birthdays have even become a way to pursue a charitable goal. You can now donate your birthday to the cause of your choice. Essentially, these posts say, "Please give to XYZ organization in honor of my birthday."  Facebook is filled with these posts, and while I'm all in for close friends and family, I find that I laugh a little at some of them. Someone who is the daughter of a neighbor of my friend's aunt Edna, who I met at a cookout once, for five minutes, wants donations to save the spotted owls of Oregon? Um, well, that's very sweet of her, but it's not like everyone on Facebook was going to get her a gift. This is the time of year when my feed gets winnowed out a little, because if I don't know someone well enough to celebrate their day by saving the symbol of Hooter's, where hardworking staff probably have to sing Happy Birthday to multiple drooling men every day, then why am I sharing pictures of my kids with them?

Birthdays should still matter, however, especially to those close to us. I'm going to a party for a family member this week, that isn't a party. Nope, the birthday boy doesn't like parties, so it's dinner, with friends and family, precisely fifty odd years (to the day) he was born. That is NOT a birthday, you hear me? There better be cake because I'm all out of whoopie pies. Also, on a personal note, Happy Birthday, Devin Mary Kim. However did you get to be so grown up and beautiful? Also, FYI to whomever might want to know, November 6th isn't just Election Day…hint hint.