Sometimes, I huffed the phrase in practicality-driven frustration as my 11 pounder-at-birth seemed to expand beyond his many adorable first-borns-are-so-spoiled outfits before I even had them on him long enough to snap one solitary photo. As I squat and sausaged him through yet another too-tight wardrobe change, I begged him to slow down. All I wanted was for the adorable hand-crafted fuzzy snowsuit sent up by my aunt in Newfoundland to last for at least one snowfall.

‘STOP GROWING’

Other times, “stop growing” was muttered because my once immobile infant was now a much too curious toddler who poked toast into the VCR, manhandled the poor dog and was suddenly big enough to climb onto the cupboard and taunt my sanity with the butcher block’s weapons of instant toddler death. At the very least, he’d surely maim himself enough getting into everything to garner a visit from child protection services.

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I needed my firstborn to slow down until I got caught up with what to expect after expecting, I suppose. My then mother-in-law – who had lost her youngest in a tragic car accident – cured me in an instant when she gently reminded me what the consequences of such a request would actually mean. “Let him grow. Please. Encourage it to always continue,” she gently cautioned. I took her words to heart and allowed nature to take its course and made the decision to just go with the flow.

My daughter? I let her grow at will. If an outfit wouldn’t haul over her chubby thighs or didn’t last long enough for a solitary selfie, I passed the garment easily on. When she seemed too roly-poly from breast milk to roll over, I laughed as my sister-in-law pushed her dizzingly back and forth until she was doing it on her own. Crawling quickly followed. From cupboard climbing to DVD collection destroying – bring it on, baby girl.

But there’s a difference in growing and growing up. That, I don’t encourage. I’ve long considered myself a child at heart. Unexpected snowfalls in springtime? Beautiful. Random bottom explosions? Delightful. Yes. My humour can only be considered quite childish. Once, my son ran down a grassy hill wet from morning dew. Even though I knew the outcome, I did nothing to stop him, chuckling to myself as he sped and then hee-hawing until I wet myself when he landed face first in the mucky creek below. He was 8.

FREE SPIRIT

I know I’m no typical grown-up. Most adults tidy before they run off to play for the day. Not me. They’ll be no adulting on a day when there’s fun to be had. Sorry? Not sorry. My kids soiled good outfits rolling in the grass and they ruined many lipsticks playing make-believe. They also inherited my free spirit, demonstrating it in their often up-for-anything for a laugh actions.

As Neverland prepares to head to Newfoundland, I’m reminded of why the statue of Peter Pan stands in Bowring Park. Like my ex-husband’s mother wisely reminded me that day; not everyone gets the chance to grow up. That’s true. Ageing truly is a gift. But perhaps more importantly, growing up doesn’t have to mean being grown up. Growing older should be celebrated, but refusing to act that way should be exalted.

Pam Pardy, The Herald’s Managing Editor, can be reached by emailing pghent@nfldherald.com

Between grocery-getting and loading the car Tetris-style to make sure the youngsters and the dogs will even fit to sluggin’ it all inside once you get where you’re going, you’re exhausted before you even turn on any patio lanterns.

Then, a few wood-fire sleeps later you do it all in reverse, only this time ‘round you’ve got a tractor-trailer load of wet towels and a hundred pounds of dirty drawers and dishcloths that need to be tossed in the rig for the ride home to be laundered, rinsed and brought back up again.

There’s also the walk of shame load of recyclables that need to be hid in the shed long enough for you to convince yourself that it wasn’t all you and the mountain of leftover food that no one touched because the youngsters filled up on slushies from the shop.

THE DASH

Now, if you are like me with two youngsters that live in their own decade, then you also have to face what’s waiting at home by the grown-up kid that doesn’t go on weekend excisions with mommy anymore. Let’s just say that there was enough laundry to keep me occupied and enough towels to fold to keep me out of trouble for a year. By the time the holiday Monday rolled around I was wrecked and needed a good reset.

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In the midst of tackling the lifetime laundry pile, I took off to the CBS T’railway for a walk. I always start at my brother’s bench. Gone since 2017, his memory plaque is a good reminder to take a moment to enjoy the view. I took in the fog across the bay. I looked at the lupins. I paid attention to the sunlight glistening on the water.

When it was time to turn around, I noticed a bench and a memory plaque I had never noticed before. Gail Richards, 1969-2020, and the words, “Gail lived her dash.” I paused, lost in thought. Gail and I were born in the same year. Did I know her? Did we go to school together? Were our kids acquainted? What happened? I also wondered what “lived her dash” was all about.

I sat on her bench, went on my phone and found The Dash by Linda Ellis. The poem reminds us of how that dash that we see on headstones or memory benches, that little character between the birth and the death year of anyone who has passed, actually means so very much.

That dash represents our lives and the time we spent on earth. And how we live that dash, how we live and who we love, is up to each one of us. I headed home. Refreshed. I finished the laundry, not because I wanted to spend my dash doing domestic duties, but because clean towels come in handy for swimming or camping adventures and you know, you don’t want to ever conclude your dash in old bottom-of-the-drawer drawers that would make your mother cringe.

MORE DASHING TO DO

As I folded the last facecloth I pondered: have I lived my dash? I haven’t done too badly, but there’s certainly more dashing left to do.
From day trips with the kiddies to overnight hiking excursions with friends, there’s more I need to pack into my dash.

Like the poem says:

Remembering this special dash
Might only last a little while
So, when your eulogy is being read
With your life’s actions to rehash…
Would you be proud of the things they say
About how you spent your dash?