Me, My Six Year Old Self, And Our Time-Warp Sisterhood

 It has long been an opinion of mine that the cross-section of society who most have their shit together, out of  everyone, are the six year olds.

I certainly was not zip-mouthed.
(Working that crop-top denim shirt
combo)

Think about it. Think about you at age six, or any six year old you have the delight of knowing. A six year old isn't going to put up with somebody hogging the sand-pit, and they sure as hell aren't going to invite you to their party if you didn't invite them to yours. I don't think I have ever been as self-assured, determined or unapologetically genuine as I was at age six. Six year olds don't compromise unless you make them. Nothing comes between a six year old and what they want other than you, and perhaps their disproportionate love of ice cream. And Toys R Us (is that still a thing?)

It therefore always makes me wonder, if six year old me had her shit together the most out of all of the me's, if six year old me was the most unapologetically genuine and the least compromising, then what would she think of me now? I desperately want her approval. If six year old me approved of twenty-two year old me, then I think I'm doing all right. I think I've made it. 

So what was I like at that age? One of my uncles said I was his favourite niece because I was just so angry. All of the time. I was a furious little indignant thing, marching around, cross at the world. I don't think that's changed much, except now my rage is channeled less through climbing into my den and complaining to my teddy bears (I say less) and more through poorly timed feminist rants, and passionate rows with conveniently stupid, imaginary people. 

I still wear this dress now.
But probably with less conviction.

At six I was unwavering in my conviction that I would mother ten babies. Yes, ten. It is worth pointing out here that I thought babies were light as a feather, and clung onto you like muscly little monkeys, allowing you to wander about your business with one or two on each limb, hailing down taxis, giving them what-for at the bank, like some sort of trundling one woman baby farm. I still remember the look of apprehension on my nanny Amanda’s face when she handed me a baby to hold for the first time, fully realising that this would crush my dream. Safe to say, weight/ clinging ability of babies aside, my point is, six year old me fully expected adult me to be an absolute bloody machine of a woman. 

I cant’t say for sure how closely my lifestyle aligns with ‘bloody machine of a woman’, but there are certainly aspects she would admire. The fact that I'm single, for example, six year old Elizabeth would fervently approve of that. She would also be extremely pleased that I have never, even in moments of unreserved love and infatuation, ever walked along the street with my hand in the back pocket of my lover’s jeans, and their hand in the back pocket of my jeans, because she saw that once on a European sight-seeing holiday, and she was not impressed. Not one bit. 

Dreaming of being a grown up.
And a spy.

Where six year old me had a penchant for launching herself down slides head first and upside down, twenty-two year old me gets the same rapture-angst from moving to foreign cities by myself; this year it was Madrid, two years ago it was Prague. I like to think we’d have a moment about this one. I think she'd look at me like I'm one step closer to being the manga-cool spy she envisioned me being and I would feel like the manga-cool spy she envisioned me being, and then we would both go and leap off that ten metre diving board together, like sassy synchronised salmon, JUST TO PROVE THAT WE CAN (and also to show up our brothers). 

This time-warp sisterhood has often got me through seasons of struggle in my life; tapping into that strong sense of who I was when I began, my core self, can help to clear the fog. Me before my eyebrows were bushy and babies were heavy, before bottling it up and long before all of the bollocks (interpret that as you will…) Pretty much everything grown-up is impressive to a six year old, and sometimes it can save you to remember that.

So keep a little globe of never-never-land, for when everything grown-up is nettlesome and bland.