Oh to be Eight Again

Oh to be eight again…

To march from room to room clapping my hands under each raised leg. 

To go a weekend without brushing my hair.

To read James and the Giant Peach, Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing, and Charlie and The Chocolate Factory for the very first time. 

To see boys as strange, mystical creatures who have absolutely no hold on my heart.

To find hours of fascination in damming every kind of running water: creeks, street gutters, bath tubs.

To have a bigger bed to climb into after I’ve fought myself out of a nightmare.

To wake every day knowing it is likely I will wrestle, get tickled, be snuggled, giggle, chase, and be chased.

To know the thrill of firsts: climbing a rope, diving off the high board, running in the rain, getting Dad with a huge snow ball, biking the block on my own and roller skating beneath a disco ball. 

To be a collector of frogs, stickers, stuffed animals and petrified wood. 

To dress in a pink striped shirt, plaid green pants, my bright orange jacket, and worn cowgirl boots and know I am beautiful.

To witness a stranger’s enchantment with the freckles sprinkled across my cheeks.

To feel my mother softly tickling my back while I lay on the couch miserably sick, followed by a steaming bowl of chicken soup, a warm bubble bath, and a flannel nightgown made by my Grandma.   

To look adorable in pink hair bows, Minnie Mouse shirts and oversized purple sunglasses.

To wear half of my best friend’s heart on a rusted necklace for a month straight….only to forget it one day and find she didn’t mind a whit. 

To lounge in a chair with my head on one armrest and the back of my knees over the other.

To love my lost, “probably dead” hamster who I found three weeks later living behind our big screen T.V, scrounging off the Frito crumbs I had brushed between the couch cushions.  

Oh to be eight again. I didn’t appreciate it near enough, as I discover as I watch my daughter — and experience the joy once more through older, wiser eyes.