I don't like roller coasters. Actually I don't really like slides, going high on swings or anything that gives you that weird intense feeling in the pit of your stomach. I'm not sure when this happened. As a child I remember swinging my legs faster, higher, squealing in delight as I soared into the air, and I was always first in the queue at a roller coaster or a flume ride. Every now and again in adult life I'll tentatively test it out, nervously giggling only to confirm that it still freaks me out.
Over the last year I noticed F started shying away from slides, and not particularly high ones. While other kids were flinging themselves head first and barrelling down, F was standing back and watching on with big eyes. I was passing my weirdness onto him, because this is what parents do. It's not always the big loud actions that make an impact but the small little things; like acknowledging them if they call your name, saying hi and smiling at that person selling you a pint of milk or being adventurous enough to try a slide.
So months were spent coaxing him down and the progress was good but slow, then I stumbled upon this:
Because now you’re finally tall and can look down at the world below you. Gone are those constant views of ankles, coffee table legs, and your family cat’s hollow, piercing eyes. Now you’re zooming up and over gardens, sandlots, and your baby brother’s distant, fading cries.
Stomach gushing, adrenaline rushing, it’s your first taste of the high life.
First taste of the high life. Something struck a chord. I had forgotten what it felt like to be a child, to feel freedom without fear. It wasn't F I had to worry about, it was me. So yesterday when I opened my eyes and turned 33, I decided to do something that scared me a little. To make me feel alive, and it was fun.
If you can't hear the squeals and screams of this vine post then head over to my Vine profile
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