Did you ever think your younger selves were long gone, buried beneath layers of time like forgotten relics? Surprisingly, they’re still very much alive within you, existing alongside your present self. They haven’t been swept away like ashes in the wind; instead, they are nestled close, perhaps not as comfortably as you’d think. Imagine them lined up like pantry jars, each representing a chapter of your life: tea, cornmeal, sugar, a flicker of flame. Lift the lid and take a deep breath. Remember those moments? Now it feels like your hair is on fire.
When I first started liking boys, I wasn’t the person I am today, navigating the aisles of a grocery store in search of sunscreen and party supplies. I didn’t have the telltale signs of age—gray hairs, wrinkles, or the remnants of a once-vibrant body. No, I was just a regular kid, albeit a little quirky. It was sixth grade, and I had a flat chest, patriotic Pro-Keds, and shiny hair pinned back with whale barrettes since a Farrah Fawcett flip was off-limits. I was absorbed in Joan Aiken novels and finger-knitted rugs for my dollhouse while watching Little House on the Prairie. Yet, I still found myself daydreaming about Mark Jupiter, hoping to hold his hand when “Rock with You” blasted through the roller rink speakers, my skates sparkling with excitement. On the last day of school, I eagerly awaited the return of my film roll, anxious to see his dimples again, though they came back blurrier than I remembered.
Fast forward to seventh grade when I briefly dated Jono Gallin, a shaggy-haired boy at a bar mitzvah disco party. My eighth-grade crush was a boy in math class with eczema and a giant afro. I even had a crush on a smart boy with wire-rim glasses who passed me a note that blushed as deep as a ripe plum, eventually heading off to Yale. Boys, boys, boys.
The realization of “crush blueprinting” hits hard when your child enters middle school. Suddenly, their awkward, metal-mouthed friends fill your house, bringing back childhood memories of puppy love. During a sleepover when they were 13, I listened to their laughter echoing up the stairwell, reminiscing about my own youth. This was the era of awkward faces, the kind you could imagine being assembled from mismatched parts. My son brought home a friend whose mouth looked like an assortment of teeth tossed in at random. They were so wonderfully imperfect that I began to wonder if this might actually be an evolutionary stage—sure, girls can technically get pregnant at 13, but why would they want to with these patchwork faces?
As the years passed, crushes morphed into something more intense. The boys in high school, with their toned bodies and confident postures, were the catalysts of my teenage desires. They pressed me against walls in gymnasiums and music rooms, their bodies radiating youthful energy. I learned about lust from them, and their youthful images became etched into my memory. Yet, I didn’t get stuck in that phase; I moved forward, experiencing relationships in my 20s and eventually settling into a family life in my 30s. Yet, there’s always a part of me that lingers in that hazy memory of 15.
“Nostalgia is different from pedophilia,” I told a friend in my kitchen, only to be interrupted by my daughter asking if pedophilia was the love of feet. It’s not about love, foot-related or otherwise. It’s nostalgia. I find myself driving to my son’s high school, where I spot teenagers with their carefree swagger and faint stubble. They remind me of someone I used to be, a vibrant spirit now draped in the guise of a suburban mom. They see me as just The Mother, oblivious to the youthful vigor that still lies within.
And then there’s The Father—still the boy with dark hair and a hint of that youthful yearning. He’s not just the one who drives the family car; he sometimes pushes past the ordinary, reminding us of our own vibrant pasts.
This piece is adapted from Soul Mate 101 and Other Essays on Love and Sex, edited by Jennifer Niesslein, to be published by Full Grown People on September 21, 2015.
If you’re interested in more relatable stories, check out this insightful piece over at Modern Family Blog. And for those considering at-home insemination, Make a Mom offers reliable kits, while American Pregnancy provides excellent resources on pregnancy and home insemination.
In summary, our past selves linger within us, shaping our present as we navigate the complexities of parenthood. These memories serve as a reminder of the youthful passions we once had, and while we’ve grown and changed, those experiences remain a vital part of who we are.
Leave a Reply