The Overscheduled Child
                 by Lucy Greenburg

According to popular culture the "Overscheduled Child" is the term for hollow-eyed shells of children, as young as 7or 8, who dutifully earn scout badges, play Little League, join math club, study the trombone or violin, perform social rounds of playdates, finish homework and chores, and even get in quality time with the family, including Grandma, Grandpa and cousins.
The Overscheduled Child is not produced by pollutants or parasites found in exotic fruit, but by parents who ignore experts' warnings that too many structured activities may turn children into
short, hyperactive robots.
I admit that when I grew up I was as overscheduled as a CPA during tax season. I never suffered though, probably because it was my own heart and not my parents' that longed for these new experiences.
I was brought up before the terms "overscheduled child" or "downtime" were invented. My parents, ignorant of harmful consequences to my young psyche, allowed me to pursue my passions. The stars were aligned just right. I lived next door to a YMCA that offered a myriad of afterschool classes that let me indulge fantasies of becoming a dancer, a singer, or perhaps a famous guitarist. 
Each afternoon was filled. Tuesdays and Thursday I'd march the two blocks from school to the "Y" as if I were striding over the floorboards of the Royal Albert Hall in London. I would then sweep through the door of Rm. 18B to join the rest of Ms. Muriel Gold's select ensemble of Broadway-bound preadolescents.
I wouldn't call any of us artistes. But all of us loved to pretend, and that was more than enough for Ms. Muriel Gold. "Bravo!" she cried when I remembered my cue. "Well done!" she said to a fellow actor who made the role of corpse convincing by not itching his nose. 
As much as I loved the "theh-tah" as represented by Ms. Murial Gold, I also adored singing classes. Sometimes our teacher had us  sing songs that she, herself, had written. Her melodies were upbeat and cheerful, like the one where the entire class joined in on the chorus:
One new war, one new war.
                        All that we need is one NUKE (beat, beat) lee-ur war.
                        Then there'll be room for the mountains,
                        And room for the sun. And room for the oceans
to replace everyone!

    As the song wound up, the entire class made a great whooshing noise meant to invoke the sound of a great mushroom cloud eviscerating humankind.
How could learning state capitolsland irregular fractions, the way I did in school, possibly compare?
Quickly I became a sort of underage Walter Mitty. Outwardly, I was a less-than-average student whose pencil tips always seemed to break without provocation. But on the inside I dreamed of my Broadway debut, each day imagining myself in a new starring role. One day on line in the cafeteria I picked up an empty bowl and extended it to the lunch lady behind the counter. Sounding as pitiful  as possible, I said in my most authentic Cockney accent, "Please, suh, I want some more." At first the lunch lady looked like she might call over the lunch monitor, but then she filled my bowl with Sloppy Joes and warned me not to call her "sir".
Eventually my Broadway aspirations were supplanted by a career in counselling.  But by the time my infatuation with the performing arts faded, I had learned something that I never learned in school - that throwing myself into something I loved made me happy and sometimes ecstatic. And finding out I could behave wholeheartedly and with determination far outweighed the occasional fatique and crankiness that resulted from my "overscheduled" day.