When Youth Is Used Up

I remember thinking that the fifth graders were adults. As I watched them file by the first grade playground on their way to lunch, they were so old I just knew I’d never get there.

When I was in fifth grade, I never glanced at the first graders looking at me. I was only aware of the eighth grade kids, paired off in early love, holding hands as they started home.  Once again, unattainable to a skinny, gawky girl with glasses.

My grandmother, Momo, lived with us. She was an adult, but she was never old. She was limited by her broken hip, but that only placed her in the class of kids I knew who had had polio, a grasping fear in those days before “The Sugar Cube.” I knew that she would be riding a bike, or roller skating, if only her leg worked. I now know that one sign of your childhood being used up is that you recognize age. It has limitations, and it also has wisdom, both lacking in children.

I don’t know if my grandchildren think that of me. Am I ageless? Or am I old? I do know that my son is past his own childhood, and knows the truth.

This was demonstrated last week as we spent an evening with him, his wife, and their five girls. For some reason, the conversation turned to situps, which inevitably led to all the girls doing a few, Katie a few extra, because she can. Then our son decided to do a headstand. And I decided to join him.

I was the headstand champ of the fourth grade, spending an entire twenty-minute recess upside down in the soft clover patch on the west end of the playground. No one else even came close. For me, it was like standing on my feet, and although my head got a little red, I suffered no ill effects. So, my brain relived that feeling, and I knelt down.  Then the adults in the room exploded. “Don’t do that! You’ll break your neck!” “Mom, if you make a mistake you might end up in a wheelchair and Dad will have to take care of you!”

My granddaughters, who answered my question, yelled, “Grammy, you can do it! Go, go go!”

I’m not known for taking advice, so I decided to do what I wanted. And, I saw Jon’s feet approaching me from the left, ready to stop this insanity. So, I tucked my chin and did a forward roll.

“Mom, why did you do that?” my son accused.

“Because I can.” I said.

I know it won’t last forever, but for now I’m perpetuating the myth that I believed about my grandmother.

She could do anything.