I Just Turned Four and I’m Having a Kidlife Crisis
Life comes at you fast
I’ve been trying to laugh it away, ignore the signs, deny that it’s happening. But there’s no putting it off any longer. I’ve officially turned the big oh-four and it’s all downhill from here.
A few days ago, I blew out a giant “4” candle on my Daniel Tiger-themed cake in the presence of family, neighbors, and the few kids from my pre-K class I haven’t bitten yet. While all the other still-three-year-olds at the party were jumping in the inflatable bounce house, so carefree in their youthful naïveté, I was sitting alone in my fortress of sofa cushions, coming to terms with the fact that I was entering the long, awkward middle period of childhood between toddler and tween, when life just slides slowly and inexorably towards the decrepitude of puberty.
The thing is, I still don’t feel like a big boy, no matter how much grown-ups tell me that I am whenever they want me to clean up my toys, put on underwear, or stop crying because I asked for mac and cheese for lunch, and they made me mac and cheese for lunch, but it was the kind with little tube pasta instead of seashell pasta, and everyone knows the little tube pasta is yucky because it tastes too smooth, and now I want a quesadilla instead.
In my mind, big boys are people like my older brother, who’s getting into the upper single digits and has what, one, maybe two good years of childhood left? But then I think about how I can’t remember the last time I wore a diaper or took a nap — mostly because my long-term memory only lasts four weeks, unless candy is involved, in which case I remember forever — and realize, wow, I’m not that young anymore.
Just yesterday, I heard myself asking for a “yellow crayon” instead of a “ya-wa kway-on” and thought, oh God, I promised myself I’d never turn into my father, and now I sound just like the old man.
How can it be that I’m already aging out of strollers, yet I still haven’t accomplished anything in life? Mozart was composing music at my age. Picasso began drawing before he could talk. Harry Potter defeated Voldemort from his crib.
What do I have to show for my four long years on Earth? The best thing I’ve done so far is a lame hand turkey from last Thanksgiving, and even for that, Miss Katie had to help me because I couldn’t get the stupid glue to stick to the googly eyes.
I used to have such big dreams. I thought that when I grew up, I was going to be a dinosaur. Or a fire truck. And what am I now? Line leader. Calendar helper. Door holder. Menial little bureaucrat jobs. If my eighteen-month-old self could see me now, he would think I’m pathetic. He would be right.
When did I get so inured to this daily grind? The never-ending schedule of waking up, going potty, brushing teeth, getting dressed, eating breakfast, not needing to go potty again, not wanting to go potty again, refusing to go potty again, not caring if it’s a twenty-minute drive because — as I stated previously — I don’t need to go potty again, crying because no one can make me go potty again, promising that I will not regret not having gone potty again, putting on shoes, climbing into the car, rolling down the driveway, realizing I need to go potty right now, crying because it’s taking too long to get back up the driveway, running back into the house to go potty, and crying if anyone brings up my earlier statements on the subject of potty-going.
There has to be more to life than this.
I wish I could break free of all the tedious routines and responsibilities, and go back to doing what I want instead of what other people expect of me. Stay up all night and nap until noon. Chug a whole bottle of formula and spew it all over a fluffy sheepskin rug. Paint the townhouse red with spaghetti sauce.
But at the same time, I know I can’t just quit preschool — how else am I going to put pretend food on the table and keep a playhouse roof over my head?
Maybe I should look at this milestone birthday as a wake-up call. An opportunity to do some deep self-reflection, think hard about my priorities, figure out who I want to be and what will truly bring me joy.
Or maybe I’ll just get a Ferrari racecar bed.
