Thank god I found this place, Sunday Scribblings, because otherwise I’d be out – out, I tell you, out! I got nuttin’ today.
So, thanks to the folks over at S.S. for the prompt.
When I think of “youth” I think of very young, say, up until high school. I know that seems odd, especially when I put it into the context of my son starting high school in less than one year! When I remember my youth, it as if I am remembering a story that happened to someone else, kind of like a television show about your own life. You know it happened, but it doesn’t seem that real anymore. (How do I know this? What television show is based on my life you ask? Hoho,haha, wouldn’t you like to know? Have you ever seen Alias? I’m just sayin’.) Whereas from 8th grade on (the year my family moved and I “started over” with my life), those memories I still feel.
So – youth. I only have a few vague memories prior to age 3 or 4. My mother was pretty good about documenting things in my baby book, and that helps. I was shy – painfully so. The first day of kindergarten was awful for me. The teacher called me by my formal name, and I had to raise my hand and tell her I preferred to be called by my nickname. It was so scary. She was a tiny woman, but very loud and IN CHARGE. I wanted to shrink into myself. She had to ask me to repeat myself, which I responded to with great horror.
Not much changed over the years. I was shy, but friendly with other kids once I warmed up. I was a very good student until seventh grade. Then, all of a sudden, who was best friends with whom, who was flirting with whom, and ohmygod, she wore those kind of shoes?! became so much more important than the teacher liking me, or not being mad at me. I finally found a voice, at age 13.
I think those first 13 years I was a pretty easy kid for my parents. I am a middle child, the second daughter, the baby being the only boy. My sister and brother fought a lot (she was bossy, he was wild) and I tried to keep the peace. On family trips (in the car, of course, that big old Galaxy 500) I always sat in the middle (my feet on the hump on the floor) which really was no fair, but I don’t recall complaining. (I’ll be my memories are much kinder to myself than how my parents remember!)
I can’t say that I ever had any strong urgings to do something specific when I grew up. In third grade I had to draw a picture of “where I saw myself in 20 years. I drew myself standing in front of a house, and I wrote that I wanted to be a mother. God. That’s all?! Of course, the house looked amazingly like the White House, so maybe there were some subconscious leanings there after all.
And here I am, more than 30 years later. What do I have to show for myself? Not much, as far as career. Funny, but the thing I have been most successful at IS being a mother. Who knew. My concept of motherhood is so incredibly different now than it was then. What I realize now is that I don’t have to “be” someone, I don’t have to be something different, it’s not a role I play. I am just myself, and that is how I am a good mom.
I wouldn’t mind if my kids repeated my youth, but only using my definition of youth ending at age 13. After 13, things got much more interesting (NOT the word my parents would use) and those stories are worth several more posts. I would much prefer it if my kids don’t repeat my life from 14-18. Those were charming years, yep, I’m sure I was an utter joy. Such a joy that I’m pretty sure I’m doomed to live it over again, this time as a parent to my kids.
