Tasks pile up, those with great importance trying to look large and intimidating.
That is when the inbetweener arrives.
The woman that is an adult, grown and all at once energized by the child so easily distracted within her.
You’ve seen her, felt her excitement…so infectious and silly it’s hard not to pay attention.
A stack of bills sits on the corner of her desk, right within reach.
The smaller one who has an energy that tricks her into believing she’s taller than her legs realistically allow…has found a way to convince the older one that the bounds of what is within reach are flexible and immaterial.
The day has been set up to be productive and very responsible…which is why the five-year-old in me needs to paint without concern or acknowledgement of direction.
I have to feed myself, but I also need to let her tell me I’m mixing a magical and mysterious potion.
“That’s not coriander!” She yells at me when I try to be too serious. “Those are the ashes of a dragonfly who has been blessed with the fart of a giant upon its wings!”
I’m lucky to have her to correct me when I try to read a recipe for what it is.
She has a hard time paying attention to the road in front of her when the clouds are drawing her up, making her think she can fly.
I let her run wild when I get the chance to fly, laughing at the puffy things sailing right alongside her, and never the other way around.
Trusting that she needs to chase the moon, blow bubbles in her soda, and fill her belly with chicken nuggets, fries, and a big squirt of ranch.
I love her.
Adore the way she wants to cackle as she runs, feeling grateful not to feel the age of her body just yet.
I want to take her on adventures. Let her live and breathe in this skin that only temporarily needs to reside in places of pretend importance.
I’m protective over her too, not letting others experience the pleasure it is to feel her excitement explode.
Where the younger version of me felt the pangs of others signaling it was time to grow up; now that I’m here…I refuse to let her be confined by such stupid notions as adulthood or what age she may actually be.
I’ll feel her childish enthusiasm and stubborn determined nature as I mow my lawn. Even let her voice how she can do it herself!
She can have the space of adulthood, owning her environment while confidently cackling at maniacal expressions she’s invented simply to entertain herself.
I will buy her a milkshake when someone is a butthead and delight in how it will never not be funny to her to build a whipped cream mustache on her dog’s face when we get home.