Growing Pains

Growing up has not always been a pleasant experience for me. I learned early on that the best part of childhood is, at some point it stops. I was painfully small and shy, wieghing in at less than half the size of my classmates. At age twelve, I was roughly the size of the average seven year old.

I broke my arm in kindergarten. On a four foot slide, of all things. I was preparing to go down on my tummy, and plow head first into the soft sand below, which at the time seemed loads of fun. But shortly after I started my descent, I chickened out. I awkwardly hooked my feet around the sides of the slide, partially stopping my Hollywood stunt. Mind you, I was still slipping around, and my tiny arm came down hard on the metal railing of the slide. Coach Griffin heard the pop, and he carried me easily into the school.

The break was bad, and I was pulled out of school for the remainder of the year, which was a relief to me, because I hated that God forsaken place. This was just the beginning of many terrifying years of public school.

And that wasn't all. I had two brothers, one seven years older, who was the baine of my existence, and one two years younger, also the baine of my existence. Patrick hated me, as older brothers often do, and did everything in his power to torment me. When he wasn't doing that, he avoided me entirely. Andrew was different. He followed me everywhere, toddling after each of my own tiny steps, not meaning at all to annoy me, but doing so anyway.

I often requested that my mother throw Patrick off the deck, and that seemed to be a perfectly reasonable punsihment for ruining my life the way he did. Patrick said to Mom, in the midst of a fight, "She sounds like Bloody Mary! Off with his head!" I knew about "off with his head," but that just seemed cruel. I didn't want Patrick to die...just suffer. A lot.

My brothers and I continued to fight regularly. Blood was sometimes drawn. (I was a biter.) But over time, Patrick and I became close. I'm a young adult now, and Patrick is grown. He dumped his formal childhood title and took up the more casual "Pat." Strangely, he seemed more up tight and serious as a child, and now that he is grown, he seems to be easing up a little.

I've grown too. I'm entering adulthood with an awkward smile and a woman's body. Patrick knows this. While Andrew, now fifteen and a guard dog of a little brother, wants to shield me from danger, and any opposing male that comes into his territory, Patrick wants to prepare me for adulthood. He figures that being ready to take on life is better than trying to prevent it from ever happening.

I'm excited. I'll be eighteen soon. Wow. Adulthood. But is this realistic? I mean, is anyone ever an adult at eighteen? Or thirty two, for that matter? For some, being an adult means fending for one's self, and for others, it means looking out for your fellow man. I have a feeling I will end up doing both.

Childhood never really stops, I suppose. It just morphs into something else. We still hold on to our past experiences whether we want to or not. Our past does not necessarily make us who we are; it's what we make out of it, and whether we move forward or not. I think I'll try going down the slide again. Who knows? It could be fun.