It is a truth universally acknowledged (sorry Jane, but it’s too good a line to ignore) that a lot of people don’t grow up – they just grow old. Speaking as a man who is busily growing old (just a little bit faster than I expected) I want to ensure, if I can, that I remember to grow up as well.

The thing about this is – it’s tricky. And it’s one of those things that is best quantified by someone else. I can stand proudly in my bedroom, looking at myself in the mirror and declaim “I am mature and responsible” but it doesn’t matter much if my wife wonders in and laughs. For one, I might have no clothes on, and she might consider that such naked self-aggrandisement* isn’t exactly the paradigm of maturity. She also might think I’m a prat.

So whether I have grown up, or just grown old(er), isn’t something I can really decide. But I don’t want to screw it up. You see, one of the great things about having a toddler in the house (apart from the freedom with which you can watch Abney and Teal) is that you have walking round a constant, dribbly insight into the baser human instincts. The boy don’t hide it. He’s loud and proud, and he is, like all of us perhaps, absolutely able to be calm and reasonable – just as long as all of his whims are instantly gratified. All of them mind – if he wants to eat something unidentifiable he’s just pulled out of the lounge bin woe betide whoever tries to stop him. Prepare for the scream of toddler anguish.

But it’s not exactly radical to point out that the scream of toddler anguish still resides in all of us. Or at least it does in me. And, to be honest, I reckon it does in the majority of humans I have had the privilege of observing over the years. What we find, of course, is that the conventions of adult life mean that we can’t get away with letting it out.

If I throw a wobbler every time my boss asks me to do something that I don’t particularly fancy, I’ll soon find myself in need of employment. If I scream the house down because I didn’t get my way with the TV remote I may soon find myself in need of, well, either a lawyer, a doctor, or at least a marriage counsellor. But the desire remains within – and this is the thing – sometimes we let out the scream in subtle ways. You know what I mean – it’s that look, the shake of the head, the sigh, the general passive-aggressive waltz of the frustrated man-child.

…and it’s the same with toys. I remember watching a work colleague desperately phoning companies to beg for more debt so she could buy a second-hand boy racer car she had happened to see. She wanted it; she had to have it. Why? Because she wanted it, of course. Now, I’m not like that, of course. No, I’ll find a reason to convince myself that I actually need a six thousand pound carbon racing bike, with electronic gearing (Di2, don’t you know…) and ultralight wheels and, well, all the bells and whistles**. Or I’ll decide that I deserve it, which is even more ethically creative. But the cry of anguish – the genuine feeling of loss – that comes with not getting it – well; some of us spend our entire lives (and fortunes) trying to ensure we never have to experience that feeling again. We didn’t like it when we were two, and not much has changed since.

So what is growing up? Well, everything that I have seen and value these days (at least in my better moments) has something to do with selflessness. Someone once said that it is better to give than to receive, and I think sometimes I know what they meant. I am starting to realise that, in most things, I am the problem. Every time someone manages to ignore the scream of toddler anguish, and embrace that familiar feeling of loss, and put someone else first – well, not to be too dramatic, but the world might just get a little better. If I can remember to do this – to lose my fascination, my focus, my obsession – with myself… well, maybe I will be growing up.

Andy.

* You gotta like that pun!
** although it wouldn’t actually have a bell or a whistle