We were outside somewhere, this almost 25 year old me and this 5 year old me, 20 years apart, sitting on a bench weaving flowers into crowns. We never discussed how we were the same person, but we both knew it was true.
"Do you still like horses?" she asked.
"Yes," I said, almost telling her that she would actually have several of them someday with a beautiful red barn and a miniature donkey. I didn't want to spoil the surprise though.
"What do you do now since you grew up?"
"I'm an actor. And I teach kids about art."
"What's an actor?"
"It's someone who tells important stories to a big group of people all at once," I answered. "I pretend to be other people, or animals, or anything. I sing and dance and make people laugh and listen."
"Oh," she said. "I already do that."
I laughed. "I suppose you're right."
She asked me about our brothers (she doesn't know yet that she'll get two sisters as well). I told her that they were the best brothers, and to be nice to them because they'll grow up to be twice as big as she is. She told me that doesn't happen to your little brothers, that's why they're called little.
I asked her what she wanted to be when she grew up.
She said a dolphin trainer, despite hearing that I just told her what we grow up to be. I pointed this out to her and she nonchalantly said, "Well you're not all the way grown up yet so how do you know?"
I forgot how sweetly bossy and all-knowing I was as a child.
She asked if growing up hurts.
I wanted to give her all of my time-traveling/ young adult/ oh-so-sagely advice.
I wanted to tell her that growing up is complicated. To not let other people make her feel like she's not cool enough to be anything she wants to be. That life happens faster than you think it does. That life doesn't always last as long as you think it will. That her parents are wonderful, that not all kids grow up with parents who are there for them. I wanted to tell her to not kick a hole in her bedroom wall that one day when she is 8, to not hit her brother with a hockey stick just because he called her a mean name, and to not be upset when her mom breaks her favorite glittery cup because it was an accident. I wanted to list the names of every person who hurt me, and tell her to stay far away from them because they would hurt her too. I wanted to protect her. I wanted to tell her that very soon she would get to be a flower girl for her Aunt's wedding; that before she walks down the aisle to be shy and afraid so that her Grandfather would stand by her side, whisper in her ear that it's ok, and help her be brave enough to walk down that aisle. I wanted to tell her to memorize this moment's smell and sounds and feelings, because he won't be able to make it to her day if she ever gets married.
I didn't say any of these things. I knew they would happen on their own, and I know that every second of the good, every second of the bad, was and would be a part of what would bind us together as a human being.
Instead, I said, "It is like learning how to ride a bike. It is hard and it is fun and it is tricky and sometimes you fall. Sometimes you tell your dad and mom to hold on even though you know you can ride it by yourself. Sometimes you want to feel someone there to catch you. Sometimes you look back and realize they stopped holding onto the back of the bike a long time ago, because they knew you would be ok. Sometimes you ride far, far away from them. Sometimes the wind whips through your hair and you feel free."
She simply nodded. And then quite unexpectedly she whispered, "You're beautiful."
It was the last thing I expected her to blurt out, and it knocked my breath out of my chest and I struggled a swallow of tears.
The last thing she also unexpectedly asked me was, "Do I do okay?"
I looked into those innocent, 5 year old ginormous eyes that I admit we'll never quite grow into, and simply said, "You do great."
Those three words of reassurance lit up her face, and I magically felt them flow throughout her days and thoughts and into mine, realizing that even 20 years later, I often seek the answer to that same question. And just like that, she twirled and skipped away.
In a couple of hours I will be 25.
I will continue to make mistakes, my feelings will sometimes get hurt, I will still fall and scrape my knees. But I will also still ride and the wind will whip through my hair, and I will feel free.
