For me, childhood is the time when there is not enough time in a day. You can argue that there's not enough time on any given day, but in my case, it looks like it was the only time when I couldn't wait for any next minute to come faster. What was also strange is that I was still immensely enjoying every minute while it passed. It was just this hunger to see what's next.
What's waiting for me outside? Were my friends already waiting for me outdoors? What will granny make for lunch? I don't think I ever tasted anything better than my granny's buckwheat dish with butter and fresh tomatoes. Sometimes my grandpa made his special scrambled eggs, that I wasn't able to replicate since, though I'm sure I know all the ingredients. I think our grandmas and grandpas have a special ingredient that you unlock later in life, like a new level in a game, when you suddenly acquire this superpower to make everything taste better and unique.
I remember going outside really early because I couldn't wait anymore for the day to begin. Noone was yet outside. My grandma didn't want to let me go so early, but I managed to convince her. Honestly, I don't know where all the willpower comes that parents and grandparents have to deny something for little blue-eyed and red-cheeked girls that ask you so nicely? I don't have children yet, but I already allow them anything they want just imagining their eyes staring at me with that desire and hunger and hope.
I remember that I liked to be outside so much. Looking for rocks, looking for flowers and ladybugs, gathering leaves, chasing butterflies. And it wasn't only enough, it was everything. Now I don't go outside without a reason. I need to listen to audiobooks or podcasts, or someone on the phone call. Otherwise, I don't see the point. And I don't see the point in being outside just for butterflies or sunny bunnies. I want that feeling back when you don't want the day to end.
Back then the seasons' change wasn't as sure a fact (I mean, summer came 6 years in a row, but it could skip the 7th, right?), and each of those seasons was a separate party to celebrate. The wonder of summer cherries, the snowflakes, the blossoming spring trees, the golden carpet of fallen leaves, and all the wonderful smells: strawberries with sourcream, new books, a new color pen, colorful candies, and milk chocolate. I think when we are children we are little buddhas, understanding the universe much more fully than our parents, without the knowledge about quantum physics, but with all the knowledge we need. Like small curly gods with our hands in dirt and shirts in chocolate. I remember how daddy gave me several cents for ice cream and I thought he was a superman. He had a job, that paid him money for how awesome he was, and for that money, you could buy candies. He surely figured life out.
Do you remember that feeling of being marvelous? When mother hugs you and whispers: "I love you" and your first thought is: "Of course you love me. I'm me!". Back then you didn't need to win the Nobel Prize to deserve someone's love. You just had it already. Why is it that growing up you start to fight to constantly achieve more to be loved, especially by yourself? As your body forms and you grow your adult teeth you start to wonder if you add anything being here. Are you created with a purpose or are you just a glitch, a result of that specific spermatozoid reaching that specific ovary cell? Maybe it's the biology class that shook your belief in your divine design and higher purpose on Earth when you discovered that just as simple there could be others in your place and you were just a lucky one.
I want to teach my children that leading small lives doesn't mean leading insignificant ones. I want to teach them that you're important and deserve to be loved even if you're an average person without anything to offer. I want to teach them that if you give everything you have to anything you do, you already lead a big life. Now it's time to believe this myself before those children are born.
