“I think your issue is that you have a romance with childhood”, someone once said to me.  A what?… How?…   Those words have echoed through my mind for years, fifteen-ish to be precise-ish.  I never really understood that statement. But I’m seeing some truth to it, now. Sadly, I know even more so with these quarantine days of Covid-19. These days of being at home, in this big, old 1974 house, on this magnificent piece of land, financially stable (used lightly), in a loving marriage, and being able to concentrate on where the pieces of my 1000 piece jigsaw puzzle go, for hours. This would seem to many to be utter contentment, almost dreamy.  I won’t take it for granted, it’s beyond wonderful. But there’s a missing piece to my puzzle, one I’ll never have again.  I had it once, but it’s long gone; only a memory now. Now there’s quiet.  And it’s clean, or at least picked up.  No more legos on the floor and melted crayons in pockets, just pulled from the dryer. Matchbox cars, a Thinking Chair, Barney on tv and water gun fights; sidewalk chalk on the driveway, and Barbie’s dumped out all over the bedroom floor.  Gone are lullaby cd’s on replay every night after a slew of books, the same ones as the night before. The arguing and laughter and my name being called over and over and over…  Now hushed.

           I want it back.  I want to go back. I want to tell myself to listen more, to write it down, to concentrate more on the details of every moment. Can I please keep the memories?  All the other parts are packed away.

           If I’d only really known how quickly time would escape.  It did begin to become more clear by the birthdays that would sneak up, one after another after another.  Blue’s Clue’s one year, a Star Wars cake, the next. I would tell my friend that I wanted them to slow.  “But there’s so many good things that come with each new-year-older” was her answer back.  She was probably right. But letting go was finite. I couldn’t ever get lullabies back, I wouldn’t be cutting up any more hotdogs, I wouldn’t spank anyone for lying about writing on the wall with marker.  It’s true.  She was right.  Not having to do all the busy work that comes with motherhood would be restful, right?

           But then comes the worry of the now, drivers; the concern of a C on a paper when it could’ve been a B, and the cost of cell phones.  Now there are discussions, via text, on what classes to take for college, or how to set the timer on the stove at the apartment.  Meaningful conversations about life and love and the future take place, too. These are quite different from the days of what color tennis shoes to pick or which superhero to be for Halloween. My friend said that these “grown-up” events would be good.  She was right. Again. And they will change, yet again and again, and still be good.

             The house is best when they stop by for a snack because they were in the neighborhood, or to borrow a needed tool from Dad. It’s even better when all five of us are sitting around the dinner table, passing food and sarcasm over my cooking.  My heart warms when I hear those voices walk through the door with a hug for mom, and a sad sigh comes when they pull out of the driveway to go back to my newer reality.

         I think I do, in fact, have a romance with childhood, because I miss it desperately.  To have someone curled up next to me, ready to listen to Dinosaur Roar or Peanut Butter, Peanut Butter, Jelly, Jelly, one more time…or ten.