Have you ever thought that your past selves were buried deep, like forgotten relics? They’re not. Those versions of you haven’t been scattered to the wind; they remain intrinsically tied to who you are now. All your different selves coexist within, perhaps not nested but rather lined up like jars in a pantry, each holding a piece of your history: tea, cornmeal, sugar, flicker, and flame. Open the lid and inhale deeply. Remember that feeling? Now, it might feel as if your hair is ablaze with memories.
When I first found myself attracted to boys, I was far from the person who now navigates grocery stores in a minivan, searching for school supplies and sunblock. I didn’t have gray hairs, a body that seemed to be aging ahead of schedule, or wrinkles that reflected my daily frustrations. I wasn’t the one who laughed too hard over a glass of wine, leading to embarrassing moments in my pajamas. No, I was a typical adolescent—or at least I thought so. In the sixth grade, I had a flat chest, red-white-and-blue sneakers, and hair held back with barrettes adorned with dolphins because a Farrah Fawcett flip was off-limits. I was engrossed in Joan Aiken novels and crafting toys for my dolls while lost in episodes of Little House on the Prairie. Yet, amidst all that, I couldn’t help but have thoughts of Mark Jupiter. I dreamt of holding his hand as “Rock with You” played at the roller rink, my skates glimmering under the lights. On the last day of school, I eagerly awaited the return of my film, yearning to see his dimples, which only came back as a blurry reminder of what had been.
Fast forward to seventh grade, where I shared a fleeting romance with a boy named Leo, lasting only as long as it took us to navigate a bar mitzvah disco. In eighth grade, I found myself smitten with a boy with eczema and wild, curly hair. There was also the brainy kid in my science class, who sent me a note confessing he liked me too, a moment I remember vividly as he blushed deeply. Boys were everywhere, and crushes were a rite of passage.
Understanding crushes becomes a new experience when you watch your own child enter middle school. As their friends gather in your home, you’re flooded with nostalgia. I recall a sleepover when they giggled about silly things all night, their laughter echoing through the house. This was the Beavis and Butthead era—a time when their features resembled patchwork quilts, faces still in the throes of awkwardness. One of my son’s friends had a mouthful of teeth that appeared randomly placed—perfectly imperfect, I thought. Perhaps this is a natural phase, where the girls can see beyond the surface and choose to wait a while before they consider relationships.
These boys reminded me of my own youthful crushes, rekindling a sense of fondness. But then, there’s a shift from innocent crushes to the more complex experiences of young adulthood. The boys I once admired transformed into those who would press against me in the gym, their bodies lean and athletic, awakening new feelings within me. I learned about desire through them, and those memories became part of my identity. I was not left behind, stagnant in my past. I moved forward, experiencing love and life at each stage, yet a part of me still dwelled in those youthful moments.
“Nostalgia is different from pedophilia,” I joked with a friend in my kitchen, only to be interrupted by my daughter’s innocent inquiry about what pedophilia meant. It was an awkward moment that reminded me of the fine line between reminiscing and crossing boundaries.
As I drive to my son’s high school, I see those teenagers—casual, carefree, with their swagger and awkward charm. They remind me of someone I used to be. Now, I’m just a parent, cloaked in the practicality of life, far removed from the vibrant youth I once embodied. I am The Mother now, holding a platter of bacon instead of reliving my teenage years, which I know is for the best regardless of any pangs of nostalgia.
Yet, there’s also The Father—still a boy at heart, carrying remnants of youthful desires beneath his adult responsibilities. He isn’t merely focused on daily chores; he occasionally embraces moments of passion and connection, reminding us that the essence of youth can linger on, albeit subtly.
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In summary, the journey through adolescence and parenthood is complex, filled with nostalgia for our past selves while also embracing the present. It’s a reminder that while we grow and change, echoes of our youthful experiences remain with us, shaping who we are today.
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