Last weekend, we discovered I can babble like the Tasmanian Devil from the old Looney Tunes cartoons which they thought was hilarious, especially if I did it while chasing them around the yard. We invented a new game called The Ticklator, which was more chasing with mad tickling when you’re caught. I showed them the magic fountain trick with a few Mentos and a big bottle of soda. And we found an imaginary little boy named Fredimore Pizzaface, who lives with his sports car in the welcome mat on my brother’s backyard deck.
I like to be informed about culture and world events as much as anyone but this was without a doubt the most fun I had all week. There is such a pure joy to goofing around with these kids, no pretension to anything other than having as much fun as we can. There’s no deep thought, no heavy discussion, just an intense drive to run around, making stuff up and being absurd. Sure, my inner child is a juvenile delinquent but I cannot recommend highly enough the therapeutic value of recreational immaturity. It’s just further proof that it’s never too late to have a happy childhood.