The word fun stresses me out. Am I supposed to be out there having fun? Am I failing at life if I’m not? It’s so much pressure.
This is not a jab at my parents but I don’t think I was raised to have fun. They both worked hard. All the time. That’s not to say there was never fun incorporated into our lives, it was inserted if and when there was time.
A hot sunny Sunday when the crops were still coming up and not yet ripe enough to be harvested, we’d pack a picnic lunch and go up to the lake as a family.
A Friday evening if Dad got his field work finished early enough, he’d grab the baseball bat and ball. Us girls would put our baseball gloves on and we’d play 500.
I suppose winter gave way for more leisure time because that was Dad’s off season. Snowmobiling, ice fishing, cross country skiing. Once or twice a winter Mom would take us downhill skiing at Thunderhill, or Thunderbump as we called it.
But I don’t do most of these activities today.
To me, fun is just being content at home, ensuring Sid is content.
Is it just me or is it more complicated to have fun as an adult?
bloom.planted.north 
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