It Was Good to Be a Kid

It’s funny, isn’t it? When we’re kids, all we want is to be adults. We can’t wait to shed the shackles of recess and homework, thinking adulthood is some magical land where you make your own rules, stay up as late as you want, and eat ice cream for dinner without anyone saying a word. We’re convinced that being a grown-up is basically a nonstop party where you control the guest list, and no one’s yelling at you to clean your room. It’s a siren song of freedom that has every eight-year-old counting down the days until they can finally, finally, grow up and take control.

But then, we actually do grow up. And what do we get? Not freedom, but bills - bills for things we didn’t even know existed when we were eight. We trade in the homework for tax forms, and recess becomes that ten-minute break where you scroll through your phone, praying for a meme that’ll temporarily make you forget how much you hate your boss. Staying up late? Suddenly that doesn’t sound so appealing when you have to drag yourself out of bed at 6 a.m. to deal with traffic, emails, and existential dread. And that whole “eating whatever you want” thing? Turns out, that carefree diet of cereal and candy bars has an expiration date, and that date is roughly the moment we start paying for our own health insurance.

The truth is, generally speaking, childhood is a kind of paradise, but we’re all too eager to escape it. We spend those years fantasizing about driving our own car, making our own rules, and swiping our own credit cards, blissfully unaware that adulthood is just an elaborate con. It's a hustle that comes with deadlines, endless to-do lists, and the crushing realization that you have to be the one to call customer service when something breaks. If only someone had mentioned that being an adult is less about freedom and more about filling out forms, we might have savored those nap times and bedtime stories a little longer. But we didn’t. And now, here we are, paying for our own cereal. Of course, hindsight is 20/20 – it’s just that now we need glasses to see it.

Today, we’re going to take a look at some of those times that, if we do take the time to stop and think about it, makes us realize that it was good to be a kid.

When a Seat on a Lifeboat is Your Birthright

The sinking of the Titanic has become shorthand for maritime disaster, a floating metaphor for hubris, bad luck, and the unsinkable nature of denial. On that cold April night, as the ocean reached out to claim its victims, there was a sudden, unspoken ranking of human worth. And as luck - or societal norms - would have it, being a child shot you straight to the top of the list.

In the midst of the screaming and hysteria, someone shouts the magic words: “Women and children first!” 

Suddenly, being under four feet tall is your ticket to a front-row seat on a lifeboat, no questions asked. It didn’t matter that you’d spent the voyage throwing tantrums, refusing to eat your vegetables, or misplacing your favorite toy. In this moment, being a child - an otherwise unremarkable, knee-high human incapable of tying shoelaces - is not just convenient. It’s vital. You’re a kid, and you’re golden.

If you made it to shore, congratulations! You were immortalized as one of those rare creatures who survived the greatest maritime disaster of its time, purely because you didn’t have the capacity to know how bad things really were. And the best part? You won’t even remember this trauma. Years later, when people ask about the sinking of the Titanic, you’ll shrug and say, “Yeah, I think I was there.” Meanwhile, your fellow survivors are in therapy, trying to process it all. A good time to be a child? You bet.

Tax Season

There are few things in life more soul-crushing than tax season. It’s not just the paperwork, though that’s bad enough. It’s the realization that the government, in all its infinite wisdom, trusts you to make sense of your finances - something you’ve spent the entire year avoiding. You’re confronted with your own dismal accounting, every latte and late-night impulse purchase staring back at you like financial ghosts.

Now, imagine you’re not a fully grown adult, burdened by W-2 forms and 1099s that seem more like hieroglyphics than tax documents. Imagine instead you’re a child, blissfully unaware of the terms “adjusted gross income” and “itemized deductions.” “Withholding” to you means, frustratingly, no snacks before dinner. You have no concept of a tax bracket because your entire economy is built on lunch money, an occasional allowance, and the Tooth Fairy’s spare change. You, my friend, are off the grid.

And if you think about it, isn’t that the dream? To exist in a space where money just appears in the form of shiny coins and crumpled bills, with no strings attached? No fear of audits, no panic over what might happen if you forgot to report that freelance gig from last April. Just pure, unfiltered financial freedom because you’re a kid. And, to the IRS bogeyman hiding under the bed, you’re untouchable.

Public Restrooms

We’ve all been there. In a crowded mall, the concert intermission, an airport terminal - somewhere where public restrooms are scarce, and the lines are long. Very long. You shuffle forward, mentally bracing for the inevitable: the one remaining stall will be occupied by someone who has decided that this, right here, is their moment to reassess all their life choices, while the rest of us are left shifting uncomfortably, plotting bathroom coups.

Enter the child. In this scenario, the kid is more than just a miniature human - they’re a deus ex machina wrapped in OshKosh B’gosh. Armed with nothing but wide eyes and an urgent whisper of “I can’t hold it,” they part crowds with the effortless ease of Moses parting the Red Sea.

No one questions the legitimacy of their bathroom claim, it’s like an emergency alarm went off because a child’s bladder is universally acknowledged as the most pressing of emergencies.

And while you, a fully grown adult, are left standing there trying to control your rage-induced bladder spasms, this kid just waltzed to the front of the line like some kind of bathroom royalty. They didn’t even need to wait. Being small, helpless, and “cute” bought them privileges we’d all kill for - no explanations necessary.

And no one does argue. It’s one of the unspoken rules of society: if a kid says they need to pee, you let them go first. This is real power. Just like that, the restroom doors swing open. Not because of diplomacy, not because of sheer willpower, but because you were born less than a decade ago and society has deemed that you should not have to wait.

Jury Duty

Jury duty: the civic responsibility no one really wants but can’t avoid. You get that dreaded letter in the mail, and suddenly, your schedule is derailed by days (sometimes weeks) of listening to people argue about things you never cared about.

You’ll sit there, slowly dying inside, while lawyers drone on about evidence and reasonable doubt. And for what? A tiny paycheck that won’t even cover your coffee habit for the week and the soul-crushing realization that your time is not, in fact, your own.

But do you know who doesn’t get summoned for jury duty? Children. Little humans who, again, can’t even tie their own shoelaces. The same beings who can’t be trusted to remember to brush their teeth are, miraculously, exempt from all this adult nonsense. Being a child is the ultimate loophole. Jury duty isn’t even a blip on your radar. No one expects you to serve. They don’t even want you there. You’re immune from one of life’s most boring adult responsibilities simply because of your age.

And the best part? You don’t even know what you’re avoiding. To you, “jury” sounds like something out of a spelling bee. You have no idea that there’s a whole world of civic duties waiting for you once you hit 18. You’re just coasting by, oblivious. Meanwhile, adults are out there Googling how to get excused from a trial without committing perjury. You, my little friend, are living the dream.

Family Reunions

Family reunions are a minefield.

The minute you walk in, you’re bombarded with well-meaning but invasive questions from every relative you haven’t seen in years. “So, when are you getting married?” “Have you thought about grad school?” “Why aren’t you using that expensive degree of yours?” It’s an endless interrogation that leaves you questioning all your life choices.

Now if you’re a child, none of this applies to you. In fact, no one expects anything from you. Nobody asks an eight-year-old what they plan to do with their life. Nobody corners a toddler at the punch bowl to grill them on their relationship status. All the older relatives who would otherwise be pestering you about your “plans for the future” instead fawn over how adorable you are. No, the under-10 set are allowed to roam free, playing tag and shoving cake into their mouths without a care in the world.

And here’s the real kicker: if you do manage to wander into an adult conversation, all you have to do is yawn or look even slightly bored, and suddenly everyone rushes to free you from the room. “Go play, sweetie,” they say, as if they’re doing you some great favor. And that, my friends, is freedom. Pure, unadulterated freedom. The kind of freedom that adults would kill for - if only they could shrink themselves down and blend in at the kids’ table for the afternoon.

Plane Crashes

Let’s talk about air travel - a process already fraught with indignities, from shoe removal to seatbelt extenders. The bright spot in this airborne nightmare is the emergency safety demonstration.

Granted, most people don’t listen. But those who do know the script by heart: “In the unlikely event of a loss in cabin pressure, oxygen masks will drop from the overhead compartment. Secure your mask before assisting others.”

In theory, this makes sense. But let’s get something straight: if the oxygen masks drop on a plane, things are not going well. The moment those yellow rubber masks pop out of the ceiling, all hell breaks loose. Grown men turn into survivalists, clawing at those dangling rubber hoses like their lives depend on it (because, well, they do). Adults fumble, panic, and scramble to get oxygen to their lungs, their brains running through every disaster movie they’ve ever seen, half-convinced this is the end.

Here again is where being a kid pays off: while the adults are frantically trying to remember the safety instructions they ignored, you’re just sitting there, completely clueless, waiting for someone to do the work for you. And guess what? They will.

Because you’re the “other” in that safety demonstration script. Society has agreed that kids, in the event of an emergency, are essentially domestic pets: adorable, vulnerable, and entirely someone else’s problem.

Meanwhile, the adults are struggling with their own masks, hyperventilating at the thought of impending doom. But you? You’ve got your oxygen supply sorted, and you didn’t even have to lift a finger. You’re breathing easy, probably wondering when the snacks are coming around. It’s the ultimate in-flight service: oxygen delivered directly to your face, while the adults are left to fend for themselves. It’s good to be a child when the world’s falling apart - airborne or otherwise.

Dinner Parties

Dinner parties are, without question, one of the most elaborate social traps adults ever concocted. They present themselves as elegant affairs - wine, conversation, and dim lighting, the kind of atmosphere that promises a good time but rarely delivers. You arrive full of optimism, only to be plunged into three-hour debates about housing markets or discussions on artisanal breadmaking, and the inevitable moment someone pulls out their phone to show you vacation photos no one asked for.

The thing is, you can’t leave. You’re stuck, cemented by social obligation, nodding along while some guy named Keith explains his keto diet with the passion of a preacher and the depth of a puddle.

Unless you’re a child, that is. If you’re a kid at a dinner party, you have the ultimate out. The second you look tired or yawn, your parents spring into action: “Looks like someone’s ready for bed!” And just like that, the whole evening shifts. Suddenly, the parents have the perfect excuse to leave, and no one bats an eye. “Oh, of course! You’ve got to get them to bed,” the hosts say. Everyone coos sympathetically, completely on board with the idea that, yes, bedtime is paramount, and the parents must leave posthaste to care for their little cherub.

Meanwhile, the adults without kids are stuck there, sipping their third glass of wine, pretending to be interested in yet another conversation about someone’s recent trip to Tuscany. And as you watch the parents disappear into the night, you realize that child has just pulled off a Houdini-level escape with zero effort. While you are still stuck next to Keith, listening to his thoughts on intermittent fasting.

Dentist Appointments

Let’s talk about the dentist. As an adult, going to the dentist is like walking into a place that exists solely to shame you for your bad habits. It doesn’t matter how well you’ve flossed or how many times you’ve brushed - there’s always something wrong. And they’ll tell you, with that smug, dentist-y smile, that you’ve got some plaque buildup or that you need to “watch” a suspicious tooth, which sounds terrifying. A reminder that something worse might come - perhaps a root canal, perhaps the news that you’ve been brushing wrong your whole life and are now doomed to a future of dental appliances.

But children? They’ve got the system rigged. Sure, they may be terrified, but that’s part of the charm. They can cry, kick, and throw a fit in the waiting room, and not only will no one judge them, but they’ll actually be comforted. If you squirm, if you cry, even if you refuse to open your mouth, the dentist just smiles, pats your head, and says something about how brave you are. Brave. For being completely uncooperative.

And after it’s all over, they’ll be rewarded - not with a bill that makes you reconsider your life choices – but, after being the least brave human in the history of dentistry, they still hand you a sticker or a toy, like you’ve just conquered Everest. Yes, a child can endure a routine cleaning, scream bloody murder, and still walk out of there with candy in hand. The dentist - this supposed guardian of dental health - is literally handing out the very thing that caused all the cavities in the first place.

Adults don’t get this kind of treatment. We get lectures. We get guilt. We get the sharp realization that the last six months of lazy brushing has led us down a dark path toward a cavity, which will require a crown, which will cost half a mortgage payment. Then comes the bill, and no one offers you a sticker to soften that blow. Meanwhile, kids are skipping out of the office with a new toothbrush and a bounce in their step, not a care in the world.

Because when you’re a kid, dental hygiene is someone else’s problem.

Sick Days

When’s the last time you really enjoyed being sick? As an adult, being sick means one thing - guilt. You call in sick, but you feel like you should still be working from bed, replying to emails, and proving to the world that you’re not slacking off. Your "sick day" becomes a day of feverishly checking your phone, hoping you’re not missing something important.

But remember sick days as a kid? They were magic. Because kids have it all figured out. The moment they sneeze, the house goes into DEFCON 1. Suddenly, everyone is catering to their every need. “Stay in bed,” parents say, “We’ll bring you soup.” The kid lounges around, sipping ginger ale, watching TV, and getting the royal treatment, while adults hover around them like they are a delicate Victorian child wasting away from consumption. No one expects anything from them. No one questions if they’re really that sick. They’re simply sick, and that’s enough to stop the world.

As an adult, though? Forget it. You could be at death’s door, crawling through the house like an extra from The Walking Dead, and people still expect you to be functional. Work doesn’t care if you’re sick. “Just log in remotely,” they say, as if you can focus on spreadsheets when you can’t even breathe through your nose. Even if you do take a sick day, you spend it riddled with guilt. You’re not lying-in bed watching cartoons or being spoon-fed soup. No, you’re staring at the ceiling, stressing about all the emails piling up and wondering if you’ll have a job when you recover. It’s not a day off - it’s a day of congested panic.

Children, though? They’ve hacked the system, turning a minor cold into a royal spa treatment package.

Theme Parks

Finally, let’s talk about theme parks. Theme parks are supposed to be the happiest places on earth but, as we all know, they’re not. They’re a gladiatorial arena where you battle heat, overpriced churros, and crowds of overstimulated tourists.

You’ve paid a ridiculous amount of money for the chance to stand in line for 90 minutes to experience 90 seconds of joy on a roller coaster.

Unless, of course, you’re a kid.

For kids, theme parks operate under a different set of rules. First off, every ride looks like the adventure of a lifetime, even if it’s just a slow-moving boat through an animatronic jungle. They don’t care about speed or adrenaline; they’re happy to float through It's a Small World without the creeping existential dread that hits adults halfway through that song.

But here’s where it gets really good for them: the Fast Pass of life. Kids, especially the little ones, don’t wait in lines like the rest of us suckers. No, they whine. And when they whine, parents crack. And when parents crack, they find ways to skip the line. Maybe it’s a stroller acting as a battering ram to clear the path. Maybe it's the old “our kid really needs to go to the bathroom” trick. Whatever it is, you can bet that child is getting on that ride long before you, who’ve been baking in the sun, questioning all your life choices.

Then of course there’s the height thing. Being short, for once, works in their favor. Have you seen the look of devastation on a kid’s face when they’re too short for a ride? It’s like their world is crumbling. Everyone around them immediately feels sorry for them. Parents, staff, even strangers in line will conspire to distract the kid from the crushing reality that life is generally unfair.

Maybe they’ll buy the kid ice cream, maybe they’ll agree to wait in line again for the flying elephant ride, maybe they’ll take them to the front of the restroom line. Either way, that child is getting something - another ride, a treat, a hug. Meanwhile, you’re still waiting for your turn on the roller coaster, slowly losing faith in humanity.

Yes, it’s always a good time to be a kid at a theme park. You get everything - short lines, free snacks, a rollercoaster of emotions (pun intended) - while adults are stuck rationing water and wondering why they paid $120 to stand around sweating in mouse ears.

And so, in the grand hustle of life, it turns out the real winners are the ones who didn’t even know they were playing. Childhood, it seems, was less a fleeting phase of skinned knees and lunchboxes, and more of a strategic advantage in the human game. We spent years daydreaming about growing up, never realizing that being a kid was like holding a golden ticket, one we tossed aside as soon as we could ask for the car keys. But hindsight, as they say, is a real kick in the shins - and probably one delivered by a kid, because adults can’t even win at that anymore.

We traded in treehouses for cubicles, juice boxes for kombucha, and recess for coffee breaks, and now we wonder where it all went wrong. Sure, we’ve got ergonomic chairs and fancy pens, but let’s be honest: none of it holds a candle to the power of a well-timed “I need to pee” when you’re waiting in the bathroom line. Somewhere along the way, we convinced ourselves that responsibility was the price of freedom, when in fact it was the admission fee to an all-you-can-eat buffet of paperwork, alarm clocks, and expired warranties.

And while we might spend our adult lives reminiscing about the “good old days,” the truth is that we never really understood how good we had it until it was far too late. Childhood wasn’t just an escape from adult obligations; it was full-on diplomatic immunity to the mundane indignities of life. No one asks a five-year-old to do their taxes or put on their own oxygen masks. No, the world gave them a pass - sometimes literally onto a lifeboat - and we let it happen, blissfully ignorant of the tsunami that was heading our way.

So here we are, adults with memories of a better, simpler time, stuck on a merry-go-round we can’t get off. And while there’s no going back, we can at least raise a glass to the little humans who, right now, are playing tag and shoving cake into their faces, blissfully unaware that the real world is out there, sharpening its claws. Lucky bastards.

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