This past weekend I went south to visit my parents. My parents moved to Oregon about two years ago and when they did, they graciously carted up about a million boxes full of my crap. Not crap that’s really terribly useful to me now, just a lot of my stuff I accumulated growing up. So while I was there I went through about six boxes of said crap. It was mostly papers, and school things; the kindergarten box was especially entertaining. Mom even managed to dig out my yearbooks from Middle School, the High School yearbooks are still missing, but I’m sure they’re in one of my many boxes.
As I looked through the boxes I noticed a few things; one was that I’ve always been a writer. There were mounds of stories, I even discovered a book series I’d written staring the characters Devil and Deviletty; two mischievous but ultimately good people. Another thing I noticed was that I’ve always been a creepy writer. One of my guidance counselors in school (high school or middle school I can’t remember which) repeatedly expressed concern to my mother. I’m glad those concerns fell upon deaf ears, because I don’t consider myself a particularly dark person. I just tend to write about darker things, monsters, zombies. I suppose writing is how I explore my darker feelings, so it can be a bit scary at times. In any case the last thing I realized is how old I am.
I know I’m not pushing 80 or anything like that, but while going through all this stuff I suddenly realized, I’m not a kid anymore. I’m a full fledged adult, an adult who loves video games, comics and cartoons, but I digress. Even having Jack didn’t make me feel that old. It’s very strange, how I felt looking through all those boxes. It seemed as though all the events that have taken place in my life are all bunched together and not separated by years. It sounds like a cliche but it seems like just yesterday I was a tiny, intimidated sixth grader wandering the halls of Nellie N. Coffman Middle School, a freshman at CCHS, a senior at CCHS, a freshman in college, it all seems so close, so how can it be so far away?
I wonder if this feeling will continue to overcome me as I grow older. Will I feel old when Jack turns 16, when he goes to college, when gets married? Or will this feeling of him being an almost two year old still feel too close for him to be so old? It’s so strange this duality of feeling. Feeling totally prepared to be a good mother, and yet not really believing I’m old enough…