During those dark years when my younger siblings were no longer cute and I had no nieces and nephews, I thought of myself as "not a kid person." I wanted kids of my own some day, sure, but I certainly didn't want a career that involved kids, and I never felt the need to hold every baby I saw.
Seven years and six nieces and nephews later, I still don't consider myself a kid person, and I still have no desire to spend all day with other people's kids. But the minute the first nephews entered the scene, it was easy to find my kid mode again, and watching my little brood grow and discover new things is one of the best things about my life right now.
I adore my kids, but other people's kids? I don't care about them. (That sounds less harsh if you say it in Jim Carrey's Count Olaf voice.)
Except, even that is changing. Early in my "try family ward" experiment, I was given the calling of primary pianist, my dream calling and one of only a handful of family ward callings that didn't terrify me. So before I could jump ship and set sail for mid-singles Mormon land (would it be creepy? pathetic? not so bad? Only one way to find out!), I snatched up my chance for an easy, fun calling, and the ice around my heart began to thaw a little. I started loving those kids very quickly. You try listening to kids sing every week without turning gooey inside.
Having gone so long without kids as a part of my day-to-day life, I had forgotten a few things. Like how much they have to teach you. How they give love away freely, are unashamed of what they love, are far more forgiving than adults are.
And since it's been even longer since I was a kid, I've forgotten some of what it was like to have childlike traits myself. For example, the memory of being a shy kid is painfully clear. But surely I never made an unprompted, public display of affection about something I loved unashamedly, like kids do every week in primary. Surely I've never been capable of letting loose like that, in any form of my personhood.
But perhaps I'm wrong on that, too. Yesterday during my drive home, the song "The Power of Love" came on. This was my absolute favorite song when I was about 8. I wish I could say I was talking about the cooler and more socially acceptable song by Huey Lewis and the News, but no, my little heart wanted Celine Dion.
I loved this song so much I kept the karaoke tape in my Walkman (when my mom didn't need it for singing gigs). It had one track with Celine singing, one without. I would listen to Celine sing first, and then I would step onto my imaginary stage and belt out the words on my own. One night I was singing so loudly my dad had to come in and tell me to be quiet so he could hear Sports Center.
It boggles my mind that there was ever a version of me who didn't care who heard me singing a solo. I've always liked singing, but I hate singing in front of people. I thought it was always that way, but then this memory popped up to contradict me, reminding me that there was a time I was comfortable enough, unashamed enough, to sing the song I loved before checking to make sure the house was deserted. I am in awe of that little girl; I wish I had her lack of restraint.
A lot of the time, kids aren't angels. They're loud, disobedient, messy, mean, exhausting—you know the list, whether you've procreated or not. The admonition to "become as little children" shouldn't be taken literally in every sense. But there's a reason we spend a short span of our lives being told to "act more like a grown-up" and the rest to "become as a little child." Kids are generally untainted by the complexities of adulthood. If they're taught good principles, being their best selves just comes more naturally.
Kids these days.
