A Lost Boy

I think the story of Peter Pan does not correctly reflect the genuine desire of children in suggesting that they wish to be kids forever. Sure, every child dreams of being able to fly, fighting off pirates, and never having to go to bed. But what do those have to do with never growing up? In fact, those are things adults do. Children aren't allowed to fly airplanes. They are constantly being told not to fight when adults themselves always do. And parents get to stay up late eating ice-cream and watching TV (or whatever it is they do) when the kids have to be in bed “on time.”

When I was a kid, all I wanted to do was grow up so I could have and do everything that grown-ups get to have and do. I couldn’t wait to find out all cool grown-up stuff from when my mom would say, “I’ll tell you when you’re older.” Now that I think about it, I still don’t think she’s ever told me…

So whose fantasy is it? What child would ever want to never grow up—always be too small and too young to get all the grown-up privileges? It was not Peter’s fantasy, nor Wendy’s, nor the Lost Boys’. It was the fantasy of the author—an adult—to be a child again, to live in a world where it doesn’t hurt to climb trees barefoot; a world where bubble gum tastes just as good scraped off the blacktop as it does from the wrapper; a world where you can wear the same shirt for 2 weeks straight till it gets so dirty that your mom doesn’t even notice because it has changed colors.

I once had a shirt like that. It was my favorite. Even after tearing a hole in it from crawling under the fence and sneaking in to the old run-down grain cellar back behind my house, I didn’t have the heart to give it up. Not till I was like nine, anyway, and had been wearing it for four years till it had turned an orangish-gray color and every time I raised my arms higher than my waist, it exposed my bellybutton. Nine-year old boys hate it when people see their bellybuttons.

So I was at the temple the other day, putting on a pair of pants that I like almost as much as that shirt. In fact, I’ve had them for about four years now and for the past several months I’ve been telling myself that they must have shrunk because I’m definitely too old to grow out of clothes. Oddly enough, they keep shrinking even though I haven’t washed them for the past few uses…must be the humid Utah air, I think to myself. So I sucked in for all I was worth and tried to match the two metal hooks. Weird, I thought. Why is there one hook with two metal clasps to attach it to? I don’t remember it being like that last time, but then I didn’t remember the pants being so tight either. Then, to my utter astonishment, I discovered the two hooks that were supposed to match up…two inches further in.

At first I was befuddled as to why they even had the single hook—it was like trying to eat Fruit Loops with a fork (believe me I’ve tried). Then I was afraid that if I didn’t succeed soon, I would need to go rent some pants, and I would have to hurry before they started the session without me. It had taken such an effort to link the single hook, and now I needed two more inches. After connecting them on the first try, I grinned and felt ready to try it with my pants actually above my knees. I breathed out, sucked in for even more than I was worth, twisted and contorted, and pulled the two hooks toward their respective clasps. Strike one.

I tried a new strategy: while clutching the two sides, I used my knuckles to create some slack by pressing them into my stomach, displacing the area that had been inconveniently occupied by an expanding waist. I thought back to my high school football days when all I wanted was to add some mass to my 150 pound frame. I now have acquired 20 more pounds, but it unfortunately seems to be concentrated around my torso. By that point the metal was touching and…strike two.

I was almost there. I had done all I could do and since I was in the temple I decided that I could ask for a little divine intervention. But just as I was about to pray, I somehow managed to latch them together, which I was grateful for because by then I was in no mood to pray. Now all I had to do was concentrate on not breathing too hard and bursting the snap. If I were a kid, this experience would not have been significant, as I could have simply left my pants undone and proceeded with my day.

Oh, to be free again! To live in a world where the only rules are Double-Dog-Dare, Shotgun, and Red Slug-bug. Not to simply never grow up—but to consciously be unaware of anything but childhood. Not to merely fall asleep and dream the unimaginable, but to purposefully be lost in that dream, disregarding any consequence or responsibility. That is Neverland.