Little Guilts: Things That Made Me Guilty When I Was A Kid

Not drinking the last of the milk in my cereal bowl.

Not picking up litter I saw in the street.

Hitting my little sister with a Harry Potter book when I was mad at her.

Seeing pictures of starving Ugandan kids and not knowing how to help.

When me and boy in my class teased each other that we alone were going to win the Harry Potter poster in the contest, and then when I won it I cheered myself because the whole class was silent and I wanted to make all that teasing worth something, but nobody cheered with me and the teacher told me to stop and everything was silent when I went up to get my poster.

Picking grass nervously while I waited for my mother at the end of day camp.

Another time with a different boy when we always pretended to fistfight during recess and then once totally by accident my fingernail cut his shoulder and I told him I meant to do it because we were mad at each other and I was afraid of sounding weak in front of a boy, and then the teacher was livid with me and no one would believe I really hadn’t meant it at all.

Picking legs off a daddy long-leg.

Killing spiders.

Not killing bees and making someone else do it.

Whispering to my sister that the girl scouts weren’t my friends when some of them were listening.

Loving the school pizza when no one else did.

Telling my best friend at gymnastics camp that I would see him tomorrow, and then we had to go to Acton for a week because of a funeral.

In middle school, with a different boy, when he asked for a dollar with the promise to pay it back and then after I gave it to him he laughed at me and said he wouldn’t pay it back so I stole—literally stole and took to my house—his favorite hat, again because I was afraid of boys thinking I was weak and then when I asked for the dollar everyone pretty much hated me and the dollar felt disgusting when he gave it to me, and even the troublemaking kids took me aside and said I could really get into trouble for stealing, and I was so upset because I was supposed to be one of the good kids, and I’d never stolen anything else! It’s just so hard to figure out what you’re supposed to do in Middle School. I apologized later to this guy in a letter. We didn’t exactly sit down and have a heart-to-heart, but he did start telling jokes to me again, and I was so grateful.

Scratching my teacher’s knee instead of my own itchy one while we were having a conference. She saw it as endearing.

Once when I brought my hairbrush to school because I didn’t have time at home, and then the brush got stuck in my hair while our classes were in lines outside, and this kid who was mean to me hissed, “What did you do to your hair?”

Unceasingly teasing this other boy who I actually kind of respected because that was the only way I knew how to talk to him, and even though he tried to make jokes with me and ignore it, I annoyed him so much he ended up hating me.

(Hmm…the more I write this, the clearer it becomes why I didn’t have so many friends…)

And then there was another boy in Middle School who I really, really, genuinely kind of liked (except there was this other girl who he would have been so much better with, and this guy and I, we really couldn’t manage to string together a conversation like he and that other girl could) but damnit the same thing happened and even though he was nice to me sometimes he laughed at me and it made me mad and when he tried to hold my hand while we were skating, I thought he was trying to trip me like he did earlier so I ripped it away. Then, two seconds later I was like “AW FREAKIN—was he just—? AUGH! Totally missed that!” What an idiot I was. He did that kind of thing all the time—offered to help me up when I fell, offered to help me put books away. What was wrong with me? Once I swore at him. Really, really badly. I still don’t know why. I think I thought he’d said something about me, but he really didn’t. I felt so guilty. I wanted to cry. It made him so upset. I kind of whispered it, so I really didn’t expect him to hear it, but he did. The first time I used the F word aloud—why did I use it for someone so nice? I remember that was a really bad day. Valentine’s Day. Middle School. A.k.a. hell. There was a rumor or two going around about me, I think. Maybe I thought he was involved, or I was just taking my feelings out on him. That’s the one thing I wish I could take back, out of all the things on this list. I’m even okay with scratching that guy’s shoulder or stealing that guy’s hat, but I really, really wish I had bit my stupid tongue in front of this person that day. It’s been seven years, and sometimes I still lie awake and think about the things in this particular paragraph. I did admit I liked him on the last day of school. And later at the graduation ceremony, he was smiling and joking with me like always. Thank goodness for pure hearts. But I never officially apologized to him. I’ve been trying to talk to him on Facebook lately, but…I really wish I could see him in person. Which makes it kind of stupid that I’ve missed a few of the most recent yearly reunions at our school. Well, maybe I can go this year. Or maybe I’ll just suck it up one day and apologize on a Facebook message instead of messing around, trying to get into an active conversation first. But we were never good at active conversations. It never would have worked—we just couldn’t talk. Not as well as he could talk with that other girl. They were really, really friends. Maybe that’s what I wish even more—I wish THEY would start talking again. Geez. And you know what’s kind of funny? This girl is one of my best friends now. I talk to her more than any other long-distance friend. We visit each other all the time, driving all the way up, or all the way down.

All right, fine. So I didn’t drink the milk. Didn’t pick up some litter. That Harry Potter book will always have a dent in it. I still have to check Helping Ugandan Kids off my list. Won a poster. Picked some grass. Hurt a shoulder by accident. Picked some legs, killed some spiders, ran from bees. Made people feel bad. Ate some pizza. Told a truth that didn’t come true, stole a hat, scratched a knee. Mangled my hair. Teased a few boys.

And now, I’m about to interrupt a blog post in favor of Facebook. Figures, don't it?

Childhood Games at the Beach

I really used to love the beach when I was a kid. I still love it now, of course, but everything about the beach has changed.

When I was young, I used to stand right at the edge of the ocean and stare at it and breathe in that ocean air and feel this thrill in my insides that told me someday I was going to be a pirate, no question about it, the good, Pippi Longstocking kind. That was so exciting! Something about that ocean smell—I knew it. It told me—I was going to be a pirate forever, out on that ocean-y water, where I was convinced that smell would be even better.

I used be sort of in love with this guy named Josh in my grade when I was eight. I used to play this game at the beach where I would chase after the waves as the ocean sucked them away back towards the deep part. The thin film of water dragging over the wet sand revealed gleaming chunks of different-colored quartz and bits of broken mussel shells everywhere, and that would thrill me too.

I would choose a color quartz—cloudy moon whitish, for example—and I would quickly look for the closest one to the dark part of the water that was about to become a wave. I pretended I needed to get that specific chunk of quartz or something very bad would happen to my precious Josh, some vague Disney-movie conflict that wasn’t really as important as me actually getting the quartz.

So I would run forward, reaching out for the quartz, really truly making the attempt to grab it, and the waves would crash at me as expected, and the thrill of the cold and wet and the rules of the game made me get up with a shriek and sprint back up the sand to safety ahead of the foamy water. Then I would turn right around and run back again, chasing the water as it dragged back to the ocean, revealing the cloudy moon whitish quartz again.

It was fabulous exercise.

I’m pretty sure the original goal was just to get one, specific piece of quartz, but it ended up being so much fun that once I got it and put it on the sand with my other shells, I knew I needed to get another one so the game could keep going. I kept seeing more quartz rocks that needed rescuing, and my vague, underdeveloped villain kept laughing in my head, and Josh kept cheering me on in my head, so of course I had to continue. It was a game with no end, and I absolutely loved it.

That may be the best, most thoroughly, honestly Childhood Game I think I’ve ever played. The game was devoid of any goal or purpose, because real kids’ games, the ones that require no technology, the ones they truly get lost in and return to again and again, have no goals at all. They’re entirely about pretending you’re some character, or assigned to some role—you’re a scientist who must bang rocks with a shovel to see what type they are; you’re Cinderella who must carry bucketfuls of water back and forth across the yard; you’re a construction worker who must dig up dirt in this one certain place.

Kids’ games are about pretending that you are some character, and the only point is to thoroughly experience how this character’s days are spent. I think the point of the whole thing is evaluation—kids pretend to be a character so they can evaluate whether they should act like this character more often. For example, I’m pretty sure my childhood role as a rescuer of beach quartz and Josh was rooted in something that worried me throughout childhood and into the teenage years.

I’d always been kind of worried that, because I was more of a writer/artistic person, I wouldn’t be tough or clever enough to complete important physical action sequences like everyone did in Disney movies. Aladdin was always one of my favorite Disney movies, and now when I watch it, I’m always like, “That boy could out-do Cirque de Soleil. Look at that jump! Did you just see that jump?” so maybe it’s understandable that I had such high physical standards for myself when I was young; I thought that all adults had to flip around and sail off on structurally useless carpets, rescuing love interests left and right, no matter the physical improbability of success. I thought that was going to be me, someday. That was terrifying. “If you want to be a proper love interest, you will have to battle Godzilla-caliber cobras and break giant hourglasses three times your height with walls as thick as your waist.” Petrifying. I did so want a love interest.

So that’s what I think that game was really all about—evaluating my performance as a love-interest rescuer. Or maybe it was just a carefree children’s game that had no point and gave me fabulous exercise.

If I was really going to be analytical, I would say that maybe what I really liked about the game was selecting a piece of quartz to chase after next, because maybe it was the beginning of my eye for color as an artist or something like that, but I kind of doubt it. I did love that part a lot, don’t get me wrong, but I don’t think it had that much to do with art or skill.

Now when I go to the beach, I find that all I want to do are grownup things, like taking pictures for scrapbooks or reading in the shade or walking along the sand. Not necessarily bad things. In fact, very pleasant things. But it is quite different.

It’s more difficult for us to lose ourselves in games and moments like we could in childhood. Again, not necessarily a bad thing. In fact, I’m secretly glad adults don’t get lost in things as easily, because it means we care more about something else. It just means we’d rather pay attention in case our kids get hurt or someone needs something, or our bosses call. It’s sort of a perfect relationship—kids get lost in what they’re doing because there’s so much for them to see and because they don’t know how to keep track of safety and loved ones like we do. Our role is to stay aware so we can call them back out of their worlds at the right times.

It’s an interesting dilemma. On the one hand, we crave that lost-in-thought, secret-world feeling. On the other, we’re too worried and careful to let ourselves go. At the same time, we worry about our kids—we want them to experience that lost-in-thought, lost-in-fun, lost-in-wonder feeling, too, like we no longer can, but then we get scared when they don’t look up when we call them. We get scared because their ears seem to have shut down and all they want to do is gaze at the ocean when everybody else is already in the car sitting on towels and buckling seat belts. We’re afraid to interrupt whatever beautiful dream they’re having, but we’re also afraid that if we don’t, we’ll lose them forever and whatever loving grip we have on them will cease to matter, all in one moment.

It’s hard to say which is the more valid fear unless you know what the meaning of life is: to get lost in wonder or to have families and friends and take care of them. That’s a tough call to make, and I think it’s been a tougher call ever since this recent century, when T.V. and video games and Internet came out and the wars were over suddenly and family survival was more about finding time to sit in one place all together instead of scraping together enough dinner for everyone.

I, for one, say it must be a mixture of both, if one is to be truly happy. If you really asked me, I would lean a little more towards the caring-for-family-and-friends camp, maybe because I’m just a little more afraid than others of losing myself like I used to. But that’s okay.

And we all know that that answer, the “balance/mixture of both” answer, is the one we always use because we can’t decide, but I still think (hope) it’s correct anyway, because if it’s not then I’m going to have to go find the meaning of life all over again and I simply don’t have time.

Evil Adult Things Like Accounting

In the movie “Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium,” the eccentric and goofy Mr. Magorium says he needs an accountant to come to his store so everything can be accounted for before Mr. Magorium dies. Then, when the accountant gets there (Mr. Magorium insists upon addressing him as the “counting mutant”) the accountant is stuffy and business-like and doesn’t believe that the toy store is actually magical, which it is. For most of the movie, the counting mutant accounts, like he was hired to, and everyone treats him like he’s a horrible, narrow-sighted, all-rules, no-fun man who needs to be turned into a good person.

Targeting money matters as a no-fun adult thing—which it is, really—is a common concept. The idea of “accounting” is also bad in J.M. Barrie’s Peter Pan: the grouchy father is always this horrible banking guy who Wendy, the daughter who’s afraid to grow up, gives the role of the evil pirate, Captain Hook, in her fantasy about Never Never Land.

Is accounting really such an abominable thing? Is the idea really so grown up, so alien from imagination and laughter and goodness that children must hate the idea so much? Should we have accountants in our society at all? Should all accountants go to counseling so they can eventually free themselves from their horrible accountant lives?

Of course not. Accounting isn’t evil. I don’t think it’s even the basic idea of “accounting”—keeping track of how a business spends money—that freaks out kids at all, or the grownups who miss childhood and so write about evil accountants for children’s movies so they can feel like they understand kids better.

The biggest freak-out factor about accounting is that it has to do with rules. That makes sense; kids hate rules, don’t they?

Don’t they?

Actually, no. Kids love rules, weird as that sounds. Think about board games. Board games are all about rules. Think of Monopoly! (Okay, that’s a bad example. Everyone hates Monopoly because it takes forever. People say they like Monopoly, people play it, people say yes I had fun playing Monopoly with you, but inside they’re like THIS IS TAKING FOREVER.) Anyway, kids do enjoy rules because they make them feel safe. They love rules like, “When the phone rings, you say hello and then bring it to Mommy” because this is something they can do easily to show they understand the rule and show they respect their mothers. On a painfully ideal day, of course.

Kids like rules like “no hitting,” because then they know that they can’t be hit (hypothetically) and that if they refrain from hitting others, they will be appreciated as a Good Child (hypothetically). Kids like rules like “every Wednesday night, we have a family dinner and everyone helps cook and we all talk about how our days went at the table” because it features equality, attention, and teamwork.

Rules are not placed in children’s lives just to make them miserable. The idea of rules does not exist to make humans miserable.

And to be honest, kids are constantly doing this “accounting” thing every single day! They count their toys, they count their dolls. They count their coins. They count how many pretzels everybody got to check that everything is fair. When they’re trying to be a leader and organizing a group of kids to play a certain game, they check that everybody has a costume, everyone is standing in the right place, and that every single thing is accounted for before they get going.

No, life is not ideal; the “bring Mommy the phone” rule will not always produce praise from Mommy; the “no hitting” rule will probably be broken; the “Wednesday dinner” rule will not always work out. That’s just how it is, and as kids slowly learn to deal with this global temper tantrum we call life, then all those rules—the things Mommy says, glaring at you, when you break them—the reason you can’t play with your X-Box when you still wanted to—the explanation for why we can’t buy more candy today even though Mommy promised—become the scapegoat for every sensation of guilt, indignity, or disappointment that children feel. If there were no rules, everything would be better, right?

Nah, I don’t think it would. There are other things that improve life when times are bad, not always the opposite of rules at all.

Love is a rule. “I love you,” Mommy says. Odds are, she means it, even when she’s yelling those rules at you. “I love you.” That’s the best rule in the world; “I love you and I will always love you.”

What about science rules? Like, gravity? I like that rule a lot. I do not want to go flying into space.

And, we’re back to accounting: “if she has more pretzels than I have, then I deserve more pretzels!” What’s wrong with that rule?

In sum, accounting isn’t bad, and people shouldn’t think it is. More specifically, children and grownups who want to be kids again shouldn’t be scared of accounting because it reminds them of adulthood. They shouldn’t be scared of adulthood at all.

Adulthood and life are scary, yes. But adults aren’t happy kids transformed tragically into counting mutants. Adults are not minions of boredom sent out to make life worse for children. Adults are not children with their imaginations stripped away, leaving them hollow, shadowy creatures who thrive on taxes and pain.

Adults—and children—are people. People who sincerely wish everything was fun all the time. People who wished they didn’t have to worry about getting hurt or making sure there’s enough money for dinner Wednesday night. People who truly enjoy imagining things or thinking about how life could be better. People who have families and friends or want families and friends, and who want to take care of them because they love them and because they want to be loved.

It’s okay to be an adult, because that is, after all, the point of childhood anyway.

I really want to talk to those people who wrote “Mr. Magorium’s Wonder Emporium.” Not to yell at them or anything. I did enjoy the movie after all. But I do feel they’re sending the wrong message.

One level of this message is essentially: “When you become an adult, you lose your imagination, and only people who believe magic is 100% real and who aren’t accountants are really good people.”

Hidden in this message is: “Math has nothing to do with imagination, but music does, so music is better because it’s more childlike, and if you don’t trust exclusively in the power of imaginative music then you’ve lost some vital piece of your soul and that needs to change.”

I really don’t like that. Math = adulthood = no imagination = bad. Every part of that equation is offensive and wrong. Of course there are children who like math and who are really good at it! With huge imaginations! Who are wonderful people with happy, imaginative lives!

I guess the message I really want to get out is to all the grown ups who have watched this movie and others like it and got kind of uncomfortable about it, and later alone in bed wondered, “How can I get back to that dreamy state of innocence, childhood? Was I really a better person back then? What am I missing in my life? Should I take up piano? Why do we have to grow up, anyway? Should all accountants go to counseling so they can eventually free themselves from their horrible accountant lives?”

Please don’t. Don’t focus on whether you’re a kid or a grown up. Don’t dwell about whether you’re more musical or mathematical.

It doesn’t matter.