Ode to My Youth 

W

ithout outing myself too much, I’m young. I’m in the awkward space between true millennials and true Gen Z’ers, but I won’t tell you the exact year I was born because a woman is not supposed to state her age. (I really don’t know why this is; is it a boomer thing?) When I wax nostalgic about my childhood, it feels wrong, like I’m stealing someone else’s rite of passage. I’m a ’90s baby. I don’t even remember what I was doing when the Twin Towers went down; how can I have any memories of value?

But then again, I have kids, and I keep contrasting their childhood with my own. Allow me my own short walk down memory lane.

We played in forests, unattended. The very thought sends shivers down my spine. But we had huge imaginations, and we would spend the day wandering through the wondrous woods, finding treasures and fighting pirates. We’d dream of building tree houses, of forming clubs the adults would never know about. My adult self worries about me. There were ticks! And animals! Poison ivy and quicksand (true story)! Didn’t I (or my mother) learn the lesson from Little Red Riding Hood?

We explored homes under construction. Growing up in Lakewood meant there was always a new house to explore. Were there gates around the construction sites? Probably not. Either way, gates are just a suggestion, right? We would tour the homes when they were in their wooden-frame stage, imagining what each room would be. Could this be a closet? A bathtub? Oh, look, there are pipes here — maybe it will be the laundry room! The lack of railings on the staircases wasn’t a deterrent, but a challenge. I am relieved to say that we made it out of the home tours in one piece, sans tetanus from rusty nails.