Put away childish things? I don’t wanna.
Apparently now that we’re grown ups and parents, we’re supposed to like grown up things. Like sushi, jazz and chardonnay. We are supposed to roll our eyes indulgently at our small children’s Barney sing-alongs and we’re definitely supposed to hate the Teletubbies. Ditto Barbie and High School Musical, for all sorts of intellectual reasons which smarmy smarmers invent to sound clever.
We’re allowed to know who these characters are, on account of our children’s rabid interest in them, but only vaguely. For example, we may be permitted to recognise Miley Cyrus, but under no circumstances are we to know any of her songs. We may never admit to knowing the name of the new orange dinosaur in Barney. We ought to long for adult conversation, without sound effects. Kitchen dancing and burping competitions are whispered rumours; things that only happen to other people.
In short, we must revert to those horrid teenage years when everybody else was stupid and we really were too cool for school.
Well, bollocks, I say. I think this sucks. Instead of adulthood being license to do as you please; as all the brochures would have it, it appears as though we’re STILL not allowed to have any fun. Or any fun worth having, anyway.
Today, I’m speaking out. I’m not the only one. I’m standing up for silly mommies everywhere, breaking the cycle of stuffy pompous parenting. I’m coming out of the boring closet and admitting that yes, I like Hannah Montana and am excited when there’s an episode I haven’t seen. I think the Jonas Brothers are cute even though between them they have enough eyebrows for another three people, and the tight white pants are a little disturbing. I break out into loud, tuneless Sponge Bob song randomly throughout the day. My mother has Mr Boombastic as her ringtone. Fact.
No, I do not like oysters or Brie or wine with grassy undertones. And most especially not jazz. I like Flings, and Fanta Grape, and pudding. I know who Demi Lovato is and I love The Magic Faraway Tree. I have even conquered my previous phobia of pink and sparkly things. For most of these I have my 6 year old daughter to thank. My 14 year old son bestowed other gifts, among them rather too much information about light sabers. But that’s a whole different story.
No thank you, boring lady, I don’t wish to join your gardening club. Never fear, supercilious twit, you may keep your brandy and cigar shindig. I reject the claustrophobic trappings of poncy maturity, and Lo – I am NOT ashamed!
Now you shall have to excuse me, I have a previous engagement with some small people way more interesting than you, a giant bag of NikNaks and a creature called Wild Mike.
I have indeed gone over to the dark side, and it’s fun here. We have cookies.
Tracy Engelbrecht is a writer and recovering teenage mother. She has two
children and secretly loves Hannah Montana but don't tell anyone.Do you love Barney or Brie? Do you enjoy having a license to be a kid again?