What I thought I had forgotten . . .
What I thought I had forgotten is the ebullient, veritably uncontainable excitement a child feels in anticipation of an event. Tomorrow is New Year’s Eve, and my younger daughter, eleven years old, has organized with several of her friends an all day celebratory affair and a sleepover party at which they will see Carrie Underwood on the television at 11:00 p.m. or thereabouts. There will be popcorn and ice cream and streamers and more ice cream, and at some point, either before or after the ball falls at Times Square, the excitement and sugar and time will exhaust them, and they will each pass out in their jammies on our living room floor. I will, myself, have retired hours earlier!
My daughter’s excitement is palpable. She bubbles with it; it leaks out all of her pores and streams out of her ears and eyes. She says, “I am so excited about the party. I can’t wait until tomorrow,” and I believe her.
I guess I haven’t forgotten the ebullient, veritably uncontainable excitement. I’ve just stopped feeling it very much.
When did I feel it recently? Now that moment I can’t remember. Perhaps these kinds of emotional events are reserved for the young who can tolerate the whirlwind in which they exist awaiting its advent; perhaps the events which inspire such emotion are more readily found among these younger (and yes, privileged) children; perhaps we older, stodgy folk are too reserved to even acknowledge such anticipation. Perhaps we have become too cynical and sad. Or too discrete to mention. More’s the pity, I think. It is a great loss.
It is the sixth night of Hanukah tonight. My dear friend Gayle wondered what Hanukkah is like without children—hers being all grown and mostly out of the house. I told her I didn’t know, but in my children’s absence I hoped there would remain some joy in this troubled holiday—born, I think, a bit out of neuroses and a bit out of great pride, and celebrated with a great degree of hope.
Right now, I would borrow some of Anna Rose’s illimitable excitement. I anticipate again the event which will inspire such frenetic anticipation. It would be nice to get to Terrapin Station.
My daughter’s excitement is palpable. She bubbles with it; it leaks out all of her pores and streams out of her ears and eyes. She says, “I am so excited about the party. I can’t wait until tomorrow,” and I believe her.
I guess I haven’t forgotten the ebullient, veritably uncontainable excitement. I’ve just stopped feeling it very much.
When did I feel it recently? Now that moment I can’t remember. Perhaps these kinds of emotional events are reserved for the young who can tolerate the whirlwind in which they exist awaiting its advent; perhaps the events which inspire such emotion are more readily found among these younger (and yes, privileged) children; perhaps we older, stodgy folk are too reserved to even acknowledge such anticipation. Perhaps we have become too cynical and sad. Or too discrete to mention. More’s the pity, I think. It is a great loss.
It is the sixth night of Hanukah tonight. My dear friend Gayle wondered what Hanukkah is like without children—hers being all grown and mostly out of the house. I told her I didn’t know, but in my children’s absence I hoped there would remain some joy in this troubled holiday—born, I think, a bit out of neuroses and a bit out of great pride, and celebrated with a great degree of hope.
Right now, I would borrow some of Anna Rose’s illimitable excitement. I anticipate again the event which will inspire such frenetic anticipation. It would be nice to get to Terrapin Station.
posted by Alan A. Block at 7:14 PM
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