Edible Paste

Five is the perfect age. You are innocent and mischievous all at the same time. You can get away with anything. You can run through your living room naked and nobody say a word. You can spill grape juice all over the green carpet in your bedroom and have you mommy-maid clean it up for you. You can destroy your best outfit, and it’s no big deal because it came from target. You don’t get embarrassed. Five is the perfect age.
My younger sister has been five for about four months now. She is precious, happy, flawless, messy, adorable, snakelike, rambunctious, sleepy. It’s like kindergarten menopause. She’s going through this great change in life. She loves you one minute and she swears that you stole Fluffy, her cherished stuffed dog, the next.
When a five year old gets sick, it doesn’t annihilate their world. They don’t stop dead in their tracks. They drink some Pedialite and admire the odd shade of purple their vomit was last time they regurgitated. “Honey, are you okay?” the mother will ask. “Did you throw up?” And with a smile the child will reply, “Yes. It was purple.”
When you’re five, a band-aid can fix anything. “Mom, I have a head ache, can I have a bad-aid? “Mom, I sprained my ankle, can I have a band-aid?” “Mom, I think I just cut off my foot, can I have a band-aid?” I wish my world still revolved around band-aids and purple vomit.
When you’re five, McDonald’s is your hero, along with Smokey the Bear and the girls in pretty dresses on the TV. It is so easy to earn a child’s respect when they’re young. It’s when they grow up that you really have to try to impress them. For now they don’t care that your clothes came from K-Mart or that your minivan has a purple vomit stain in the back seat. Just buy them a Swiss roll or some ice-cream and you’re suddenly their hero.
When you’re five, you meet no strangers. Every face is a potential friend. That strange hobo on the park bench covered with the local real estate lady’s face on it, could be a good friend. They scantily clad young lady whose skin is clinging desperately to her face seems like a good acquaintance. A five year old can light up a homeless man or crack whore’s spirit. They haven’t prejudged them because of their status. They love them unconditionally.
When you’re five, all colors match. When you’re five, glue is a delicacy. When you’re five, a balloon is an essential. When you’re five, a trampoline can entertain you for hours. When you’re five, “be quiet” means “just how loud can you be.” When you’re five, life is easy.
Here is my dilemma, I am no longer five. Kindergarten menopause is not my biggest problem. That crack whore makes me a little nervous. My clothes have to come from a popular store. A band-aid fixes nothing. That purple vomit stain grosses me out– a lot. Smokey the Bear is a disappointingly fake and I could swear I saw him smoking a cigarette, which he threw onto the ground, on his break between pre-schools. As a secret between you and me, if I had a time machine, I would go back to when I was five. All I left behind would be wholly worth the innocence of a five year old.
Pass the paste and grape juice-
Jessica D. Hunt