To Dream or Not to Dream. Is that a Question?

My ghosts of Christmases past have been gracing me with visits these last few days. I have a sneaking suspicion the reason for their untimely rendez-vous isn't because I'm some  stingy rich dude that everyone hates, but because my birthday is looming.These visits have got me thinking back to my childhood and more so, where I thought I would find myself by my early 30’s.  The thing is I can’t quite seem to remember. What were those big dreams that I had for myself? Did I want to travel weightlessly through space and become the first female to land on the moon? Did I want to rescue injured wildlife, rehabilitate and release them back into the wild? Or did I want to be a Mom and raise good, honourable people?  Whatever they were I'm pretty sure "little me" would have believed that I'd have my shit together by now. These days, though, my shit seems to have traveled to different continents and, on their journey, bits of them have been lost in transit.

Does this mean I have become a fragment of myself?

When I asked my friends what they wanted to be when they grew up they all knew! Without hesitation their answers poured out like little shiny treasures. One wanted to be a Doctor the other a Vet and the the others a Comic Book Artist, A Boss, and Fashion Designer. What is even crazier to me is that some of them have realized their childhood dreams; meanwhile I can’t  even remember if "little me" had any.

So like any another self respecting adult, I called my Mommy. After a long drawn out pause it was apparent that my Mom found my existential crisis at 33 very amusing. When I insisted she replied “I don’t know, you were a kid. If you said you wanted to be something I probably just ignored you”. This explains everything!  My Mom went on to say “Oh, maybe you wanted to be a prima ballerina. Remember when you buried your ballets slippers in the back yard?”

I guess I was under the impression dreams grew on trees.