I love kids.
No, really, I do.
Seriously! Stop laughing. I DO!
I do love kids. And I can relate to them so very well. Possibly because part of me – well, my brain, obviously not any sort of bodily feature – is still three.
What I love most about kids is their complete innocence, their imaginations, and the fact that they kind of live in this little, fascinating bubble of Self; sort of oblivious to the rest of the world, and sort of not. Although they are the centre of their little Bubble Universe, which also has the capacity to piss me off quite considerably, they are just, for me, a bundle of fascination.
They live in a world where snot and scabs are the cuisine of preference, where repetition to the millionth degree is of no consequence and never, ever gets boring, and where they can just as equally flit from one like to another with no warning, no reason, and certainly never any logic.
They, to a degree, and depending on the child and their environments, pretty much do what makes them feel good, do what they enjoy, and that which makes them happy.
I love that.
(I don’t always love the way they go about getting what they want, nor, indeed, do I always love what it is that makes them happy. None of us do, really. But that’s not for now.)
They are unencumbered, mostly, by rules, regulations, and meaning.
Basically, if it is enjoyable to them, then they will just go about it all willy nilly with nary a thought for anyone around them.
Of course, as they become mobile they are thrust into a world filled with adults who say things like “do this” and “don’t do that” and “put some pants on” and “get off that” and “NO! I do not want to eat any of your snot! Euwww!” (and they possibly think “What the hell is wrong with adults? Have they tried this stuff? It’s awesome! I might have some on toast. Do you think Mum’ll make it for me?”)
(Yes. I’m still three. Although I no longer eat snot …)
Then they hit double figures and their brain does this thing which those in the know, experts and the like call