This Afternoon, I have been thinking about childhood. The best time of our lives we are told. The time of our lives where we can do what we want, live freely without boundaries, without being oppressed by our views which have been molded to our social norms that we have as adults. Freedom to get muddy, play in ditches and have the innocence to believe that the condoms on the playing field are nothing more then the shredded skin from a reptile. The only time in our life where we can build anywhere, without plans and permissions, without the threat of health and safety closing our dens down. Time to be inspired, by films, peers and books, to eat worms to see if they really are slimy yet satisfying. Freedom. That is what it is to be a child.
However. Things are not as it all seems. Childhood is not at all about freedom. Its 18 years of punishment and imprisonment, sentenced at birth all because we have been born.
When I think back to being a child, I do not remember the times of utter bliss. If I were to describe it in one word, I would summaries it as 'fear'. Fear. Maybe I was just a child who seemed to worry a lot, but I often felt scared. Danger seems to come from all sides when your a child. From when you close your eyes, there always seems to be a nightmare about to appear. I haven't had a nightmare since I came of age, so to speak, but I remember as a child, having some of the most scary dreams, dreams where I would wake up and be unable to make an audible scream. Then, during the day, the fear of being lost or left behind is so great. Standing on the cold floor of a supermarket, looking out at the packets of crisps, mesmerized by the purple pickled onion Monster Munch bags. When you have absorbed all there is to take in, you find that your mother has wondered off. Panic. I know that almost every person who reads this will remember this happening to them. The fear that grips you. You see now that I am not mad with these assumptions of childhood experiences.
There then comes a point where its time to go to school. Schools are horrible places. Locked up, unable to do anything without permission. Freewill has gone. This is why the kids piss on the floor. Waiting for the teacher to finnish their conversations with the assistant, coffee from the brown glass mugs, waiting, patiently, with their hands held high. 'can I go to the toilet please Mrs Smith?' (for all teacher have to have a long drawn out formality with their names - we do away with that at secondary school), If your lucky, they will see your desperation and let you go, otherwise they will question you as to why you did not use those fine facilities at break time. Shame creeps over you, urine creeps down your leg. She looks at you, in disgust. As if she has never seen this before. Out comes the cloth, and the bin bag of spare clothing. Every kid in the class will have worn the misshapen garment which you are now presented with. Finally, at the end of the day, the ordeal just about over, your mother has to come in to collect the steaming bag of clothes, which you had tried to forget earlier.
School discipline is has always been strange. Built purely on the ground to give as much humiliation to the child as possible, without actually breaking any laws. Some at my primary school was getting the child to stand up on a chair for the rest of the lesson, so everyone could watch the poor girl weep. Another was to stand outside the staff room door. Since the school cat was rehoused in my early years at school, the frustrated staff had nothing to kick, but like little stress balls, the children outside the staff room were little vessels to take the abuse staff would pour into them. How blissful is childhood!
Outside of school, there were holidays. If you could run a lightbulb of each child's pent up disappointment, we could light up London. The first term ends and Christmas holidays come around. The fictional Santa Clause that would stock up all year just so he could deposit something under your tree or on the living room carpet. We were good boys and girls, however quite how goodness was rated I was not to sure, for the naughty kid at school always seemed to get the best toys. I always thought that it was very clever how Santa was able to provide toys that were representative of the parents income. One Christmas which stands out in my memory was wanting an electric car. They were all the rage. I came downstairs, after a sleepless night and there was a tractor, wrapped in christmas paper. After the long wait for the parents, and the parents parents, to come down stairs, washed, shaved and flossed, present opening could commence. And there, my hearts desire had provided a ride on tractor, with grand plastic blow molded wheels, a red body and ... pedals. Yes pedals. And of course, with the freedom of childhood I was only able to use it on the grass in the garden. We've all ridden on grass on bikes, and its not easy. Now imagine doing it with fat wheels. The friction was too much for my little legs to take.
Now, Santa Clause is covered. What about the other fabulous little creatures which our double standard parents have created. The Easter Bunny, the Tooth Fairy. Oh what fantastic creations. I was told never to lie, 'we don't have lies in this house, nor will I tell you a lie. You must be truthful and honest' my mother would say. Now, double standards. This was a way for my parents to find out everything. They lied to me, they lied to each other, they probably lied to the tax man (I jest of course). So we've established that most of the things we believe in are fictional creations. We find out in adolescence that much of this is not true. I wonder then what else we find out when we get older. What illusions we are currently under. The Tooth Fairy also seemed to discriminate. I remember getting 50p per tooth when the twins at school boasted about the £5 they would get. The Easter Bunny - well, he was not all that important in my life. I knew it was my dad providing the Cadbury eggs.
Summer holidays was the big one. 6 weeks of complete and utter... boredom. I will save you the drone of 6 weeks of non stop waiting around on the sofa with brief interludes of going to the park and den building, water fights and the laborious clean up afterwards - which we were, of course, told to do.
So yes, the freedom of childhood. I really do hope that reincarnation does not occur. I've been a child once. Id rather not do it again.
