What Do You Do for Your Childhood Self?

What more do you need? It turns out: a lot.

Do you remember your childhood?

I am not necessarily talking about early childhood when it was still socially acceptable for us girls to forget to put on our bikini top in public. I am talking about childhood once you've experienced some pain, after you lost a friend to a different school district or had to realize that you have grown out of your favorite pair of flower-studded shoes. This is the age where you start becoming aware of advantages and disadvantages of certain situations.

I guess I am talking about the pre-teenage years.

I remember my childhood vividly and not only because of the dozens of hilarious home videos my daddy shot.

Nowadays, I think back to these idyllic days mainly in moments of utter frustration and overwhelming emotions: when I don’t know how I’m even supposed to be doing this whole adulting thing; When I call my dad yet again about some weird weed growing amongst my tulips or asking my mom how long I can still eat a pre-cooked chicken breast before it will probably certainly kill me.

So, I think back to that idyllic time of no responsibilities and pure, carefree living.

But it wasn’t all that.

One of the things I remember particularly about my childhood are the moments when I was mad at my parents and desperately wishing to be an adult already: an adult who could make her own decisions and owe no explanations to nobody. I remember being sick of people telling me what to do and -- even more so -- what not to do. I remember wanting to lead my own life instead of playing a secondary role in somebody else’s story, my every move depending on my parents’ whims (if you know my parents and/or my childhood then you’ll know that I am ever so slightly exaggerating here. My parents are wonderful but the basic gist of this is true; Children have limited agency).

Because I remember those instances so vividly, I feel a responsibility towards my childhood-self to now make up for lost time: now that I actually am said adult.

Something I do very often is to have dessert as a meal, preferably ice cream. Aside from the fact that I simply adore ice cream, it always makes me feel like I somehow managed to cheat life. I always take a moment to think back to my little self and tell her “we made it! We are breaking all the rules!” I especially like doing this when in company, at restaurants. Because in these instances I feel like we are breaking even more rules. But because I am paying for my own meal, and I am, in fact, an adult: nobody can tell me otherwise!

Sometimes, when I am home alone and open a bottle of wine for just me or make myself a cocktail, I drink out of the bottle. Not because I really want to or because it tastes better that way. No, I only do it because I can. I can walk through my apartment (preferably semi-naked) and sip on a bottle of red wine, because I am a grown up and nobody can tell me not to do it. Do you see me, little one? Are you proud of me? I am only doing this for you (chrm).

I believe a certain responsibility toward our former selves is also part of the reason why every home-party inevitably ends up in the kitchen. I LOVE standing in my kitchen any time of day -- even when I am, for once, not cooking, because it’s the most adult of all the rooms! Every (financially privileged) kid has a bedroom. A living-room is fairly easy to recreate in your bedroom and a bathroom is simply not that exciting. But a kitchen! This is where the food is! It has appliances! Things are dangerous because really hot or cold or breakable or spillable. And I just get to stand around in here, sit on the floor (!) with my bare ass, jump on a counter (with my ass covered) and take out whatever I want. Kitchens make me feel grown-up as fuck.

You know, little one, once -- a long long time ago -- you were able to do this next one too but then you got just a bit too old and mom would always yell at you. No more, little one, no more: I now get to walk through the rain again! Without an umbrella! I even get to fall over in a puddle of mud and dirty my pants! Yes, granted, I have to clean them myself but nobody is going to yell at me as I proudly march them home!

But, personally, I get the greatest of all joys from shopping. I am not talking about clothing- or other types of fun-shopping. I am talking about being on your way home from work or on your way to a friend’s house and simply popping into a grocery store and buying WHATEVER YOU FEEL LIKE! I get to walk into a shop and buy whatever I want! I can get a yoghurt if I want or a head of lettuce. If I want, I can buy twenty chocolate bars or as many bottles of wine as my weak arms can carry. It’s not even about quantity or price, though. It’s about the fact that the world is mine. Here, in this store, are things and I can get the things for myself if I want. No asking anybody, no pleading, no wishing, I can simply grab what I want and have it. It’s about wanting that one Kindeschoggi and simply being able to get it. Jesus, adulthood might have its drawbacks but that fucking chocolate any time of day really makes up for it in a big way -- and I am committed to making the most of it!

Are you proud, little one?