Age 10 with a very bad perm
As a child I always wanted to be older. I know that’s kind of normal, but I think I took the desire to an another level. I was this strange child who went op-shopping for blazers with shoulder pads.
Power dressing at 9.
Some people say that at 21, life is the best it can be. I turn 32 today, and it’s only this year perhaps that I wish I was younger. I noticed distinctly grey regrowth in the bathroom at work last week, and despite the wishful thinking that it was paint in my hair (plausible, I’m renovating) the signs are all there that I’m now rolling down the hill rather than climbing up.
Having young children, I read a lot of stories. Many are modern, but some of them are classics that I remember from my own childhood. Jack and the Beanstalk, Where the Wild Things Are, Mary Poppins.
The words are all the same, but there is something that has changed with time.
Jack went to the market with his mother’s cow, instructed to sell it for a good price. He came back with magic beans. Anyone else think this was perfectly reasonable as a five year old? I read this story now and immediately see it from his mother’s perspective, deprived of perhaps 6 months’ income.
“Go sell the minivan Jack… oh, you traded it for 3 cocktail frankfurts? Very good then.”
In Maurice Sendak’s magical Where the Wild Things Are, Max is sent to bed without his supper. In primary school, this seemed dreadfully unfair.
Now, when Max glares defiantly at his mother, I think he had it coming.
In Mary Poppins, Michael’s childish whim costs his father his prestigious job at the bank. Don’t even get me started on that one.
Yes. I’m definitely getting older.
500m2 in Sydney 