The Inner Child

My eldest son Stephen graduated on Friday. At the same time, my youngest son, Michael,  is about to embark on the same journey, starting his own university course in September, hopefully.

I am fiercely proud of their achievement, particularly Stephen, who will soon be settling into a new job.

His adventure is just beginning.

At the graduation ceremony, I watched as lots of people were honoured, all dressed in gowns and hats surrounded by loving families and friends. As I applauded each and every one of them, I looked around at the other proud people smiling and clapping – and one minor negative thing was gnawing away at my delight.

It was a thought and it grew stronger. The thought was:

“Boy, am I getting old!”

I see younger colleagues at work with young children, each of whom are doting parents of children ranging from new born babies to those just about to enter their teenage years. And I remember when my two boys were that age.

It seems like a lifetime ago.

My lads are grown men, with their own outlook on life, their own opinions, their own likes and dislikes and their own plans for the future.

Three Men and a Lady

I am so proud of them but at the same time, I miss that childlike innocence that made me laugh yet at the same time allowed me to become a child again. Seeing the two of them in suits on Friday made me realise that I no longer have an excuse to allow my mental age to manifest itself into physical behaviour without looking like a complete idiot.

What’s more, in my fifties I am aware that the next major stage for me is retirement. Okay, that is quite far away – a good fifteen years – but when that happens I will officially be an old git.

Me in fifteen years?

I looked around some old blog posts and when I started writing this drivel I was forty five years old (it’s amazing that I am now in my eighth year of bloggery). 

What has happened to the time?

In another eight years I will be in my sixties. All my droopy bits will droop even more. My wild and feral hair will look like a mad old tribble and my old face look like the Grand Canyon.

My hair in my sixties?

How scary is that? 

I do have one advantage though. I don’t actually look my age so maybe – just maybe – people won’t think I’m a pensioner. The other benefit of having a young looking face is that my two lads have both inherited by youthful countenance. As I stood at the bar on Friday having just bought a celebratory round of drinks, both of my lads were questioned about their age. 

“Does that annoy you?” I asked. “It used to annoy me.”

Stephen just laughed as he put his driving license away.

“I’ve been used to it for four years now,” he said. Michael agreed but at the age of nineteen, he shrugged and said “And I’ll still have to get used to it I suppose.”

While the ageing process may seem depressing, I think it’s a good thing to keep the inner child alive, the one that has made me embarrass my own kids by behaving immaturely. I am still young enough to just about get away with behaving like a child sometimes and I love it when I am able to.

Mrs PM constantly reminds me of my immaturity. 

I think that it’s fun to release that inner child every so often and I don’t ever plan to stop. I think that as long as you have a youthful outlook on life your mind and body will follow and make you appear to be younger – which is an added bonus for me because I don’t look my age.

I just hope that I don’t suddenly wake up one morning having aged drastically overnight. 

Actually, scratch that! I don’t really care. As long as I’m happy and I can still walk around without pain I’ll be delighted.

Even if I can’t walk around without pain, I’m sure that I’ll be able to lift up a laptop and release my inner child on this blog.

That will do nicely.

Grow Up, Dad!!!

“Why don’t you just grow up?”

Harsh words that perhaps you would imagine were spoken by me when reprimanding one of my sons. The sad truth of the matter is that it is me who was being told off … by my thirteen year old son.

I deserved it, of course. I had been sitting next to him on the settee, driving him up the wall by poking him, prodding him, tickling him and inflicting upon him all sorts of other juvenile annoyances.

“What do you mean – GROW UP?” I asked indignantly.

“You’re an embarrassment,” he replied cruelly. “Stop acting like a child.”

I was mortified. All I was doing was having a little fun. And then Mrs PM, sitting across the room backed him up.

“He’s right. You are a child,” she said. And then she launched into a lecture about examples of how I act more like a four year old than a middle aged man. I couldn’t believe it. She told me that I do the same to her. She reminds me constantly that I behave like a child even when the kids aren’t around. Once, when we visited her parents, she said:

“I’m here with the three kids.”

I foolishly looked around and said “Who’s the third kid?”

“YOU ARE!” she said.

Now I don’t know whether to be proud of this or not. My philosophy with children has always been to join them on their level. I’ve tried to make my lads’ lives fun from the moment they could crawl.

For example:

As babies, I tried to make bath time a complete laugh. I was frequently told off by my (ex) wife for turning the bathroom into a swimming pool, simply because I encouraged the babies to splash me. It was fun – I loved it. And so did they.

As they grew older, I used to hide in their bedroom at bedtime and scare the pants off them when they came in – again they loved it. I have always hidden in the house looking for the best time to make them jump out of their skin by leaping out and screaming “BOOOOO!!!!”.

Even now, I wrestle with them, pin them down and tickle them – and my eldest is sixteen. At bedtime I charge up the stairs and leap on my thirteen year old throwing stuff at him and tickling him.

When we play “Super Mario Kart” on the Wii, I leap up and down like a demented jack-in-a-box when I win, leap onto the losing child and scream “I WON I WON I WON I WON I WON!”

When we have dinner, it is usually me who is being told off by Mrs PM for acting like a buffoon and cracking jokes.

Tell me something – is that so wrong?

I love making the kids laugh. I love having fun with them. I always have done.

It’s a crying shame that my eldest son is almost an adult. I still have fun with him and make him laugh but the looks he gives me when I act like a child are embarrassing.

“Easy Dad,” he says. “I’m sixteen you know.”

You can imagine, I guess, how I felt when my thirteen year old son told me to grow up; I was a little hurt because now he seems to be maturing to the point where my behaviour is an embarrassment to him. And to be honest, I’m saddened by it.

Of course, it is good to see them growing up and I can barely believe that in two years time my eldest son will be able to vote and drink beer. The days of having childish fun with them will soon vanish.

But I am making a promise to myself – I am going to encourage the child within despite people's best efforts to subdue him. After all, we need some fun in our lives and if I can be a child for a little while occasionally, I think it will make me a better person. Embrace that inner child, I say. You will feel better for it.

I must finish now because Mario is calling – I have an appointment with Mario, Wario, Luigi and Bowser and I don’t intend to miss it.