On Sunday, Krissy Kludt shared an Everyday Story about learning to become a kid again.
Going to the cabin is like being transported back in time. My grandparents bought the little red house in 1972 and have come up every summer since. I haven’t been here in six years, and yet everything is the same – the same games, the same 1969 rambler speed boat, the same shelf full of expired sunscreen. Even the same menu: fried fish, Cole slaw, and grandma’s cornbread casserole for dinner; root beer floats for dessert. Walking in the door four days ago, I was transported back twenty years.
Even I am the same here. Suddenly I’m a girl again, despite my two-and-a–half-year-old son and the baby in my belly. Last night I caught five rock bass on a kiddie pole because there weren’t enough grown-up poles to go around, and this week I’m the youngest grown up. I still sit in the middle of the boat, still fish over Grandpa’s right shoulder.
But there is one difference that has hit me this week: it is a rare gift for my soul to be a kid again.