Adulthood is the only time we humans revel in the loss of something that defined us as children.
As children, we gaze at our world with wide open eyes at everything we see in our world. We think so seriously about going to the moon, maybe as a whole family, and wouldn't that be fun? We excitedly await Christmas, scan the heavens on Christmas Eve for a red nose and maybe some snow. Summer is barefoot time, an eternity long, full of that word we don't yet know but will later understand as opportunity. Potential. And maybe, sometimes we will call it magic.
It's hard to point out at what point the process of loss begins in us. It may come fast and harsh, not so much a process as a moment where we are changed. It may begin slowly, with little things here and there, always different for everyone. The kid who tells his group, in hushed tones, that he found all his presents in the closet before Christmas. Or it might be the day when, as you are showing off your wealth from the night before, gained for only the price of a tooth under your pillow, a classmate yells out "fairies aren't real." Yet we still argue, still hold on a little longer as these things steal bits and pieces of who we are, until one day it happens.
We let go of our wonder.
And we are only happy to let it drift away. It's a mark of being grownup, like wearing makeup or shaving for the first time.
And after being content to leave it alone and let it drift for awhile, we dive eagerly away from it, into darker waters.
We eagerly describe ourselves as cynical and jaded. We take on these world-wise titles while telling others how naive they are. And the world welcomes it. It was others who first told us to stop being naive, to stop being amazed and awed. We are forced by the pressure, so like a wave beating us into the sand, to accept that the faeries in the photographs aren't real, that it's just too warm for snow, that we will never stand on the moon.
And it makes us sad, so sad, that we must reminisce and laugh at our younger selves not for pleasure, but maybe in hopes of revisiting the wonder that we let drift away so long ago. We claim to hate hiking in the summer because of the bees, while at the same time staring at a photograph of a path that leads into a forest, and we long to follow.
And then there are more children, so like the way we were, so full of the joy at existence that it's contagious, and we marvel at how funny they are, knowing deep down we were like that. They grow, and we say, "heh, they're lucky they don't have work. Just wait...."
Yes. Wait. They will be like you one day, falsely jaded, lying about their cynicism to hide that maybe they miss the one thing they left behind when they crawled onto the shore and found themselves firmly rooted instead of floating.
There are times, always, for everyone, where something in the distance flickers, beckoning us, saying "Come here. I have something to show you" and we draw near to find that the wonder we thought we'd drowned, that we thought was gone forever, has followed us and never left.
It will never be what it was so long ago. It can't. We are different, and it has changed too.
And though we might not stand on the moon, or have snow in 50 degree weather, we can still gaze at the heavens, not seeking glowing red noses, but a vast universe of things we can't begin to imagine. We can revel in the sounds from a guitar amp. We get excited over a plot twist we never saw coming. We watch life push and struggle and be and we study it so much closer to know why it is so wondrous.
We are all geeks over something we hold dear. It's not an obsession or unhealthy or strange; it is hardwired in us. It is the sense of wonder that we let go, refined by the waters, following us onto the shore, tied by a rope so fine that we can ignore it, and calling to us when we find it again. It has grown up with us, become specifically tailored to us. It is us.
We are creatures of wonder, in a universe built for it, and in a time after time, when all the tears are wiped away from our eyes, we will know the greatest wonder of all.
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label childhood. Show all posts
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Friday, October 12, 2012
The VCR
The other week, for a few brief, panicky moments, I literally forgot what a VCR was called. My mind scrambled to recall the correct name of "that thing that played tapes."
Oy.
It came as a surprise to me, because when I was growing up, I used our VCR a lot. So much so, that as a still very young child, I knew how to adjust the tracking to clear up the picture, even if I didn't know exactly what it meant.
Tapes were a thing. Back then, we didn't go to Blockbuster, choosing instead to frequent a placed called The Video. The building's still there; in the years since the movie store left, it's been about five restaurants. Another strip mall (torn down now)held a small video store that we also went to. This one, I remember vividly, had a large picture of Chucky on the wall and a sign that said "Even Freddie and Jason were kids once too." Apparently it was from a horror movie called Mikey.
The result of all this is that I took to indiscriminately shoving tapes into our VCR. This included some home movies, my mom's copy of Dirty Dancing, and a Denise Austin workout tape from 1986. Also the Wizard of Oz and 101 Dalmatians, the latter of which was later taped over with an episode of Regis and Kathy Lee, because someone at some time had the bright idea to make the record button bright red.
Anyone remember the movies that McDonald's used to sell on VHS at Christmas?
Man, where's my Rudolph tape? I am in serious need of a 7UP commercial right now.
Oy.
It came as a surprise to me, because when I was growing up, I used our VCR a lot. So much so, that as a still very young child, I knew how to adjust the tracking to clear up the picture, even if I didn't know exactly what it meant.
Tapes were a thing. Back then, we didn't go to Blockbuster, choosing instead to frequent a placed called The Video. The building's still there; in the years since the movie store left, it's been about five restaurants. Another strip mall (torn down now)held a small video store that we also went to. This one, I remember vividly, had a large picture of Chucky on the wall and a sign that said "Even Freddie and Jason were kids once too." Apparently it was from a horror movie called Mikey.
The result of all this is that I took to indiscriminately shoving tapes into our VCR. This included some home movies, my mom's copy of Dirty Dancing, and a Denise Austin workout tape from 1986. Also the Wizard of Oz and 101 Dalmatians, the latter of which was later taped over with an episode of Regis and Kathy Lee, because someone at some time had the bright idea to make the record button bright red.
Anyone remember the movies that McDonald's used to sell on VHS at Christmas?
Man, where's my Rudolph tape? I am in serious need of a 7UP commercial right now.
Monday, October 8, 2012
The World's Worst Kids Book
Ever.
Not even joking.
When I was in 6th grade, we were assigned a book report that had to be done on a book from this one certain series. The series' concept was pretty cool; it was aimed at tweens and had the characters interacting with famous figures in history. One I particularly liked was where the girl escaped from slavery and traveled with Harriet Tubman. That was cool.
The next choice, unfortunately, was the one where the kid had some contact, briefly, with Marcus and Narcissa Whitman. If you don't know much about them, that's okay. They were missionaries in Oregon, to the Nez Perce tribe, and were murdered. In the book, the boy never hung around with them for long and actually, not much was mentioned of them. I think they may have died during the events of the plot, but it was just said, not pictured. The protagonist was off getting lost or something. You know. Kid stuff.
Well great, fine. Interesting book. Typical G-rated kid adventure, only for a required assignment.
The next assignment was to read a non-fiction book about the historical figures presented in the novels. I could dig that.
Except for Marcus and Narcissa Whitman were the historical figures.
Remember how the novel didn't go into detail?
Well, the biographical book, which came from the kid section of my school's library, and was written for children, did.
Horrible, horrible detail.
Marcus Whitman apparently died of "hatchet to skull" disorder. Okay, sure, I get that. A little gross.
It gets worse.
Narcissa Whitman was, apparently, shot several times in the chest, after which the murderer picked her up by the hair and whipped her corpse in the face a few times. There may or may not have been more gunshots. Also, they threw in some descriptions of children being shot and/or hacked.
You'll understand if I don't remember much more of the book.
But someone looked at this book, at some point (because it was from the 1960s, when schoolchildren were apparently way more hardcore) and said "buy that sucker."
Oh, the wonders of childhood.
Not even joking.
When I was in 6th grade, we were assigned a book report that had to be done on a book from this one certain series. The series' concept was pretty cool; it was aimed at tweens and had the characters interacting with famous figures in history. One I particularly liked was where the girl escaped from slavery and traveled with Harriet Tubman. That was cool.
The next choice, unfortunately, was the one where the kid had some contact, briefly, with Marcus and Narcissa Whitman. If you don't know much about them, that's okay. They were missionaries in Oregon, to the Nez Perce tribe, and were murdered. In the book, the boy never hung around with them for long and actually, not much was mentioned of them. I think they may have died during the events of the plot, but it was just said, not pictured. The protagonist was off getting lost or something. You know. Kid stuff.
Well great, fine. Interesting book. Typical G-rated kid adventure, only for a required assignment.
The next assignment was to read a non-fiction book about the historical figures presented in the novels. I could dig that.
Except for Marcus and Narcissa Whitman were the historical figures.
Remember how the novel didn't go into detail?
Well, the biographical book, which came from the kid section of my school's library, and was written for children, did.
Horrible, horrible detail.
Marcus Whitman apparently died of "hatchet to skull" disorder. Okay, sure, I get that. A little gross.
It gets worse.
Narcissa Whitman was, apparently, shot several times in the chest, after which the murderer picked her up by the hair and whipped her corpse in the face a few times. There may or may not have been more gunshots. Also, they threw in some descriptions of children being shot and/or hacked.
You'll understand if I don't remember much more of the book.
But someone looked at this book, at some point (because it was from the 1960s, when schoolchildren were apparently way more hardcore) and said "buy that sucker."
Oh, the wonders of childhood.
Sunday, October 7, 2012
The Day My School Exploded
Kind of.
My school didn't literally explode. It's still there, just a little private Christian school sorta out in the country. This particular story takes place when I was in the second grade, which means either 1994 or early 1995.
That was a tough year. In addition to the jarring introduction to such grown-up supplies as red pens and notebook paper, my teacher died (not even joking) and the school year went extra long because we had a lot of ice storms that year, which meant schools were closed either because of the roads or power outages (and I don't remember which one.)
One particularly cloudy, chilly winter day, during a fairly normal class time, my classmates and I found ourselves pressed up against the windows, looking at the smoke rising from down the road. I couldn't see it against the clouds. Next thing I know, we were being let out of school. It also snowed, and I remember watching little bits of snow landing on my coat as I walked with my dad out to the car.
Down the road from my school, there used to be a gas station, or all of one.
Part of it, for some reason, and I'm just guessing a gas fire here, literally exploded that day.
Like boom.
My dad told me that he had seen a mushroom cloud in the same direction of my school, and probably thought, for just a bit, that the school exploded.
But no, we were good and hey, half a snow day. The rest of the gas station stuck around for a few years, I think until I was in college. I used to pass it every day going to school, back when we lived just off Highway 301. It closed, and I think the building is still there.
Definitely something pretty unforgettable.
I did write today too. Not as much as I hoped, because yard work. Oh well.
My school didn't literally explode. It's still there, just a little private Christian school sorta out in the country. This particular story takes place when I was in the second grade, which means either 1994 or early 1995.
That was a tough year. In addition to the jarring introduction to such grown-up supplies as red pens and notebook paper, my teacher died (not even joking) and the school year went extra long because we had a lot of ice storms that year, which meant schools were closed either because of the roads or power outages (and I don't remember which one.)
One particularly cloudy, chilly winter day, during a fairly normal class time, my classmates and I found ourselves pressed up against the windows, looking at the smoke rising from down the road. I couldn't see it against the clouds. Next thing I know, we were being let out of school. It also snowed, and I remember watching little bits of snow landing on my coat as I walked with my dad out to the car.
Down the road from my school, there used to be a gas station, or all of one.
Part of it, for some reason, and I'm just guessing a gas fire here, literally exploded that day.
Like boom.
My dad told me that he had seen a mushroom cloud in the same direction of my school, and probably thought, for just a bit, that the school exploded.
But no, we were good and hey, half a snow day. The rest of the gas station stuck around for a few years, I think until I was in college. I used to pass it every day going to school, back when we lived just off Highway 301. It closed, and I think the building is still there.
Definitely something pretty unforgettable.
I did write today too. Not as much as I hoped, because yard work. Oh well.
Friday, September 28, 2012
Babies and Aliens
A couple of weeks ago, I was just hanging around with family in our living room. At the time, the movie E.T. was on.
Have I mentioned that I love 80s movies?
Anyway, I had this random memory come of this time I drew a picture of the aliens when I was a kid (because every youngish adult alive today has seen that movie, and don't pretend otherwise because I know you watched it voluntarily or were made to watch it at some point.)
I used to pretend I was an artist of sorts. Most of my work when I was very young was, for some reason, some slightly terrifying pictures of a baby standing in a crib. I can picture them exactly in my head, because I drew like a million of them, all the same, all on white construction paper, and mostly in red pen. Also, the baby sort of looked like E.T., but skinny. And terrifying. At this age, I also remember drawing a picture of the aliens from the movie near their ship.
Using the same sort of logic that led me to once bring a hushpuppy home as a pet, I deduced that the aliens were all named similarly, with initials only. The next part's a little fuzzy, but one of the aliens was E.T.'s brother, and was given either "A.B." or "B.A." as his name. I dearly hope it was the latter. I guess he would have been a biker alien.
I also once convinced my mom to let me watch Raiders of the Lost Ark on TV, despite the gruesome content at the beginning, because it "went nicely" with my "It's a Small World" read-along cassette. I think I was five.
All that, and I was in college before I figured out that Fievel and his family were Jewish mice, and that the beginning of An American Tail depicted a pogrom.
We all gotta start somewhere.
Have I mentioned that I love 80s movies?
Anyway, I had this random memory come of this time I drew a picture of the aliens when I was a kid (because every youngish adult alive today has seen that movie, and don't pretend otherwise because I know you watched it voluntarily or were made to watch it at some point.)
I used to pretend I was an artist of sorts. Most of my work when I was very young was, for some reason, some slightly terrifying pictures of a baby standing in a crib. I can picture them exactly in my head, because I drew like a million of them, all the same, all on white construction paper, and mostly in red pen. Also, the baby sort of looked like E.T., but skinny. And terrifying. At this age, I also remember drawing a picture of the aliens from the movie near their ship.
Using the same sort of logic that led me to once bring a hushpuppy home as a pet, I deduced that the aliens were all named similarly, with initials only. The next part's a little fuzzy, but one of the aliens was E.T.'s brother, and was given either "A.B." or "B.A." as his name. I dearly hope it was the latter. I guess he would have been a biker alien.
I also once convinced my mom to let me watch Raiders of the Lost Ark on TV, despite the gruesome content at the beginning, because it "went nicely" with my "It's a Small World" read-along cassette. I think I was five.
All that, and I was in college before I figured out that Fievel and his family were Jewish mice, and that the beginning of An American Tail depicted a pogrom.
We all gotta start somewhere.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
The Hushpuppy
When I was a little kid, like four or five, I very much wanted a puppy. I would play with the dog next door through our fence, and my parents had had a dog named Sam when I was a baby, but at the time, we didn't have any pets.
One night, we went out to eat at some barbecue restaurant or another. (There's a wealth of them here, trust me.) I'm not even sure we whether we were eating with friends or family. I don't know what I ate.
But I remember the hushpuppy.
I'm not sure at what point I was aware that the fried cornmeal was called that, but I knew the word, apparently. During the course of the meal, at which many hushpuppies were served and consumed, I managed to get attached to one. For some reason.
I decided that it was my puppy (being literal here) and declared to my mom that it was my pet and I was taking it home. Mom warned me it would rot before long. I kept it anyway. I must have had a balloon, because I had a balloon string to tie around the hushpuppy as a leash, and I took it home.
To keep it hidden from parental eyes, I stuck him under the edge of my bed, so happy to have a pet.
After that, I have no idea what happened. I went looking for the hushpuppy one day, and it had apparently run away. Or rotted, as my mom said. Or maybe fed a nice family of mice. I don't know. I don't even think I reacted.
And that is the not so tragic tale of the hushpuppy.
One night, we went out to eat at some barbecue restaurant or another. (There's a wealth of them here, trust me.) I'm not even sure we whether we were eating with friends or family. I don't know what I ate.
But I remember the hushpuppy.
I'm not sure at what point I was aware that the fried cornmeal was called that, but I knew the word, apparently. During the course of the meal, at which many hushpuppies were served and consumed, I managed to get attached to one. For some reason.
I decided that it was my puppy (being literal here) and declared to my mom that it was my pet and I was taking it home. Mom warned me it would rot before long. I kept it anyway. I must have had a balloon, because I had a balloon string to tie around the hushpuppy as a leash, and I took it home.
To keep it hidden from parental eyes, I stuck him under the edge of my bed, so happy to have a pet.
After that, I have no idea what happened. I went looking for the hushpuppy one day, and it had apparently run away. Or rotted, as my mom said. Or maybe fed a nice family of mice. I don't know. I don't even think I reacted.
And that is the not so tragic tale of the hushpuppy.
Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Prequels
The other night, my family had a cookout at my uncle's house. At the end of the night, when everyone was breaking up and about to go home, someone put it on the History Channel. It was playing that thing they put on every year around now, with no narration, only time stamps and video.
Since it was the beginning of the program, it was showing glimpses of a normal Tuesday. I think there were some parts of Good Morning America, some clips of President Bush jogging, all pretty early in the morning, before anything happened.
The first time I watched Star Wars Episode I, it struck me how that high voiced, pretty naive little boy in the movie would become Darth Vader. It's a weird feeling, because you already know what will happen later.
I got a feeling like that watching those clips.
Only it was for real.
When I see those clips and videos of the hours and minutes before the planes hit the towers, I know what's coming. I know that in the story, very soon, the nation will be rocked to its core. A chill will go down my spine, the cell reception will buckle under the weight of so many trying to just reach someone, and life will change forever. Irreversibly. It's the point of no return, and if we knew what was coming next...
The pre- and post-9/11 worlds do not come one without the other. In the future, when people are curious enough to ask my generation what it was like, we'll tell them what both times were like. We may have been shaken to the core, and a shadow cast over the future, but shadows aren't permanent, and the light came first.
Since it was the beginning of the program, it was showing glimpses of a normal Tuesday. I think there were some parts of Good Morning America, some clips of President Bush jogging, all pretty early in the morning, before anything happened.
The first time I watched Star Wars Episode I, it struck me how that high voiced, pretty naive little boy in the movie would become Darth Vader. It's a weird feeling, because you already know what will happen later.
I got a feeling like that watching those clips.
Only it was for real.
When I see those clips and videos of the hours and minutes before the planes hit the towers, I know what's coming. I know that in the story, very soon, the nation will be rocked to its core. A chill will go down my spine, the cell reception will buckle under the weight of so many trying to just reach someone, and life will change forever. Irreversibly. It's the point of no return, and if we knew what was coming next...
The pre- and post-9/11 worlds do not come one without the other. In the future, when people are curious enough to ask my generation what it was like, we'll tell them what both times were like. We may have been shaken to the core, and a shadow cast over the future, but shadows aren't permanent, and the light came first.
Tuesday, September 4, 2012
Remakes, or I Think I'm Old Now
So this past weekend, Season 7 of Doctor Who premiered. We get BBC America. Naturally, I commandeered the TV for watching a little Who. I won't spoil it for you, I promise, but there were Daleks (the name of the episode mentioned them, so really, not a spoiler.) After that, I watched Sherlock Holmes (the 2009 movie.) The night before, I had started watching The Hitcher (from 1986) on Youtube, and finished that movie up.
That's quite a lot of input into my poor little brain. I ended up having some dream in which there was a suicide note and I was turning into a Dalek. Pretty tame, actually. I had a dream with bandaids that made me gag, so I'll take the Dalek thing over that any day. (I hate bandaids.)
Lately I've been on an 80s kick. That happens every couple of years. Literally I will possibly soon be all about the 90s, which is when I actually grew up. But the 80s fascinate me right now, and coincidentally, a lot of my favorite movies were made then. I'd read some good reviews of The Hitcher (the original) and checked it out.
It was a decently creepy movie. There was gore, yes, but not a lot of it, no more than anything I've seen watching any of the crime shows I watch. It wasn't a slasher flick, in other words, but very psychological.
But they made a remake in 2007.
Sean Bean played the antagonist.
I haven't seen that one, and I don't really want to. For one, I can never really take that actor seriously as a bad guy. He's too human. He might play a criminal, but he's never unlikeable. Also, 2007 is possibly one of the worst years you could have picked to make a movie in which a lower antagonist is the absolute isolation of the highway, with no cell phone and no one you can trust. The original was scary because if you were driving alone, then you were really driving alone and unconnected.
So I wonder how the approximately million remakes coming up will hold together. I mean, they already remade Footloose. I don't know if it was any good, but it appeared to be all about country music and line dancing, with all the fun of a CW "next week on" promo. Pretty in Pink is most likely next, and I've already heard that they're remaking Dirty Dancing, though that may be just a rumor. (Hopefully a rumor, because it would probably be just pretty much one of the Step Up movies, and uhm, ew.) They've already remade Red Dawn. I saw the trailer, and it looks to be pretty good, from a technical movie standpoint. But is it believable?
*sigh*
I feel old. I'm defending movies older than me.
I'm gonna be like one of those kids I knew in college, who were born at the age of like 85, only unlike Benjamin Button, never got younger.
Someone get me some sugary cereal now. I need to grow down.
That's quite a lot of input into my poor little brain. I ended up having some dream in which there was a suicide note and I was turning into a Dalek. Pretty tame, actually. I had a dream with bandaids that made me gag, so I'll take the Dalek thing over that any day. (I hate bandaids.)
Lately I've been on an 80s kick. That happens every couple of years. Literally I will possibly soon be all about the 90s, which is when I actually grew up. But the 80s fascinate me right now, and coincidentally, a lot of my favorite movies were made then. I'd read some good reviews of The Hitcher (the original) and checked it out.
It was a decently creepy movie. There was gore, yes, but not a lot of it, no more than anything I've seen watching any of the crime shows I watch. It wasn't a slasher flick, in other words, but very psychological.
But they made a remake in 2007.
Sean Bean played the antagonist.
I haven't seen that one, and I don't really want to. For one, I can never really take that actor seriously as a bad guy. He's too human. He might play a criminal, but he's never unlikeable. Also, 2007 is possibly one of the worst years you could have picked to make a movie in which a lower antagonist is the absolute isolation of the highway, with no cell phone and no one you can trust. The original was scary because if you were driving alone, then you were really driving alone and unconnected.
So I wonder how the approximately million remakes coming up will hold together. I mean, they already remade Footloose. I don't know if it was any good, but it appeared to be all about country music and line dancing, with all the fun of a CW "next week on" promo. Pretty in Pink is most likely next, and I've already heard that they're remaking Dirty Dancing, though that may be just a rumor. (Hopefully a rumor, because it would probably be just pretty much one of the Step Up movies, and uhm, ew.) They've already remade Red Dawn. I saw the trailer, and it looks to be pretty good, from a technical movie standpoint. But is it believable?
*sigh*
I feel old. I'm defending movies older than me.
I'm gonna be like one of those kids I knew in college, who were born at the age of like 85, only unlike Benjamin Button, never got younger.
Someone get me some sugary cereal now. I need to grow down.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
The Fork Thing Didn't Go Over Well
I've come to realize that I cannot possibly be the only unfortunate 25 year old woman who once...
1. Tried to comb her hair with a fork.
2. Wanted a horse. It could live in the shed out back.
3. Made a Trapper Keeper into a cubicle "cover sheet" for spelling tests.
4. Gifted Barbie with permanent makeup and/or a permanent haircut.
5. Tried the whole "bedsheets out the window" thing. My anchor of choice was the flimsy plastic part of the toilet paper holder.
6. Confused some adult about there being a "cat" in the sky during a crescent moon.
7. Ate Kool-aid powder, because friends said it was "good."
8. Ate a habenero pepper. Because "hey, eat this."
9. Watched Crossroads. Twice.
1. Tried to comb her hair with a fork.
2. Wanted a horse. It could live in the shed out back.
3. Made a Trapper Keeper into a cubicle "cover sheet" for spelling tests.
4. Gifted Barbie with permanent makeup and/or a permanent haircut.
5. Tried the whole "bedsheets out the window" thing. My anchor of choice was the flimsy plastic part of the toilet paper holder.
6. Confused some adult about there being a "cat" in the sky during a crescent moon.
7. Ate Kool-aid powder, because friends said it was "good."
8. Ate a habenero pepper. Because "hey, eat this."
9. Watched Crossroads. Twice.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Who Takes Kids Seriously?
I wonder sometimes if it sucks a little to be a young Olympian.
When I was a kid, I thought the Olympics was the coolest thing. It's still pretty cool, but back then, there was nothing quite like the thought that maybe I, too, could be a world-class swimmer. (I still really love swimming. I blame The Little Mermaid.) But as with almost all dreams of children, it was fleeting, and I never revisited it again. (The writer thing first crossed my mind as a 9-year-old, because of the Babysitters Club books.)
But I think we've all seen that one commercial, celebrating moms, where it shows little kids being pulled out of bed, early in the morning, eating breakfast, and going to practice at some sport. Yeah, it's a little romanticized.
But it got me thinking.
People who win medals don't get there on accident. Yes, they work hard. Parents can only provide so much motivation before even that is lost in the shuffle. The athlete is the one that keeps it up, for good or bad, until they win. But they all start young. There are kids basically being amazing at 15, an age where I was just trying not to be too awkward. (It didn't work.) No, I'm not depressed. Actually, I'm a little motivated.
Because who takes a six-year-old seriously?
Obviously someone does.
I hope I take my kids that seriously when they tell me their dreams.
When I was a kid, I thought the Olympics was the coolest thing. It's still pretty cool, but back then, there was nothing quite like the thought that maybe I, too, could be a world-class swimmer. (I still really love swimming. I blame The Little Mermaid.) But as with almost all dreams of children, it was fleeting, and I never revisited it again. (The writer thing first crossed my mind as a 9-year-old, because of the Babysitters Club books.)
But I think we've all seen that one commercial, celebrating moms, where it shows little kids being pulled out of bed, early in the morning, eating breakfast, and going to practice at some sport. Yeah, it's a little romanticized.
But it got me thinking.
People who win medals don't get there on accident. Yes, they work hard. Parents can only provide so much motivation before even that is lost in the shuffle. The athlete is the one that keeps it up, for good or bad, until they win. But they all start young. There are kids basically being amazing at 15, an age where I was just trying not to be too awkward. (It didn't work.) No, I'm not depressed. Actually, I'm a little motivated.
Because who takes a six-year-old seriously?
Obviously someone does.
I hope I take my kids that seriously when they tell me their dreams.
Monday, June 25, 2012
1995 Was a Great Year to be Nine Years Old
Arguably one of my favorite blogs is Fourth Grade Nothing. The author grew up in the 70s and 80s, and most of the posts are spent reminiscing about her childhood. I love reading it. It's sort of like oral history. Actually, that's exactly what it's like. I wasn't around for much of the 80s, and none at all for the 70s, so it's really cool to read about another person's experiences.
I also love Children of the 90s, because I am one.
I don't remember much at all about the 80s, except for snatches here and there, memories of snow, my dad's Isuzu truck, and maybe a little Disney World. I was born in 1986, and spent a little over three years in the glorious 1980s (they really do look fabulous...) before the clock struck midnight and January 1, 1990 rolled in.
My most favorite memories are of the 90s, when I really grew up. Like so many other people who remember their childhood, I just feel like everything was so much better then. School supplies were definitely more awesome, and everything we take for granted now was a novelty.
I think that's why third grade was my favorite year of school. I mean, yeah, it had its times of suckage, but that was all elementary school drama. It was 1995 when the school year began, and I was almost nine years old. I freaking loved shopping for school supplies, and mine were epic. I had a suede backpack, all different earth-toned colors, and it closed with a drawstring and a flap. My chin-length hair (which was straight then) and my spaghetti strap dress over a white t-shirt made me feel so fashionable. Like really. I had style. I think.
My favorite school supply was my Trapper Keeper, which had some computer generated, abstract image on it. Man, that was so cool. Trapper Keepers are back, yeah, but it's not the same. They're boring. Vintage, supposedly. To a 90s kid? Bleh.
I'd taken a little creative license with the school supply list and convinced my mom that the sparkly glittery crayons would be fine. (They weren't. We did color mixing that year. Turns out peridot doesn't count as yellow.) I remember my teacher reading Ellen Tebbits that year. The world was our acid trip as we collectively obsessed over Lisa Frank. I think I had a pocketbook by that time, mostly because my cousin, the same age as me, had one and I desperately needed one too. I don't think I ever used it.
Please, all of yall tell me you remember plastic pacifier necklaces, yin-yangs everywhere, and Yikes! pencils and stuff. My fiance found some at his house, the green and purple particle wood sharpened down to just three inches long.
The Bookmobile, and extension of our local library, came every three weeks and parked right across the street from our little house, and I devoured The Babysitters Club and Goosebumps. I think I learned to love reading then. Not sure when the biting sarcasm developed.
That was the year we got cable, and it was absolutely amazing. I watched all of one channel, Nickelodeon. Back then, you had to order the Disney Channel extra, so I never watched that as a kid. Nickelodeon was enough. It had previously been a treat reserved only for weekend trips to my Gramma's house in Virginia, or for when we were at my Granny's house across town. Snick was the perk of a weekend at Gramma's, and Are You Afraid of the Dark rocked my world.
In 1995, I discovered Star Wars. My parents rented it, and it blew my mind. I'd never seen anything like it before. I mean yeah, I watched Star Trek The Next Generation on TV, but I have only a few memories of that and no emotional attachment. Star Wars made me love movies. Better than that, it made me love good storytelling. I had a homemade Star Wars cake that year, with Darth Vader, Emperor Palpatine, R2-D2, and Luke Skywalker on it. The writing was done in blue gel on white icing. Epic.
My goal was to eventually make a lightsaber with a white blade. I daydreamed of finding that special crystal in my schoolyard.
We didn't have Internet yet then. I mean, it existed, but for most of the public, it was a little bit of a novelty. We didn't even have a computer. Family friends did, and I remember playing with a program at my parents' friends' house where you would speak into the microphone, and the parrot on-screen would repeat what you said. It yelled at me when I used the word stupid once.
I thought the internet looked so cool, with all the AOL keywords and games and a whole world out there, right at our fingertips.
I begged my dad to get a computer with a "motive" so we could get on the internet.
He laughed at me. The computer with the "motive" didn't come until the next year, around the same time we got Minnie.
After 1995, it got crazy. Technology changed at a dazzling rate of speed. I didn't know what a cell phone was then, and I had no idea, in 1995, what a laptop was. (I would later discover this technical marvel while watching Independence Day, in which a Powerbook was used to kill aliens.) No year, for the rest of that decade, ever felt as aweome. Blips of cool popped up here and there, such as seeing Star Wars (Special Edition!) in the theater and getting a puppy (10th birthday...double-digits rock). Back before the new Star Wars trilogy came along and partly broke the hearts of fans everywhere (but we're loyal lovers.) Back before the Y2K scare, before 1999 got stale, and back when kids weren't lazy. Back when anything was possible, but what else could have been better? Forget tomorrow. Today, there are pools to cannonball into, Death Stars to blow up, just in front of the swingset, and Warball games to play, beat or be beaten.
Yes, 1995 was truly a great time to be nine years old. I don't think the world's any worse. We're certainly aware of more now. I think we might've appreciated childhood a little more if ourselves now could go back in time and show our younger selves that this Saturday at the pool is a blessed and rare day off. But why ruin the fun?
And by the way, I still want that white lightsaber.
I also love Children of the 90s, because I am one.
I don't remember much at all about the 80s, except for snatches here and there, memories of snow, my dad's Isuzu truck, and maybe a little Disney World. I was born in 1986, and spent a little over three years in the glorious 1980s (they really do look fabulous...) before the clock struck midnight and January 1, 1990 rolled in.
My most favorite memories are of the 90s, when I really grew up. Like so many other people who remember their childhood, I just feel like everything was so much better then. School supplies were definitely more awesome, and everything we take for granted now was a novelty.
I think that's why third grade was my favorite year of school. I mean, yeah, it had its times of suckage, but that was all elementary school drama. It was 1995 when the school year began, and I was almost nine years old. I freaking loved shopping for school supplies, and mine were epic. I had a suede backpack, all different earth-toned colors, and it closed with a drawstring and a flap. My chin-length hair (which was straight then) and my spaghetti strap dress over a white t-shirt made me feel so fashionable. Like really. I had style. I think.
My favorite school supply was my Trapper Keeper, which had some computer generated, abstract image on it. Man, that was so cool. Trapper Keepers are back, yeah, but it's not the same. They're boring. Vintage, supposedly. To a 90s kid? Bleh.
I'd taken a little creative license with the school supply list and convinced my mom that the sparkly glittery crayons would be fine. (They weren't. We did color mixing that year. Turns out peridot doesn't count as yellow.) I remember my teacher reading Ellen Tebbits that year. The world was our acid trip as we collectively obsessed over Lisa Frank. I think I had a pocketbook by that time, mostly because my cousin, the same age as me, had one and I desperately needed one too. I don't think I ever used it.
Please, all of yall tell me you remember plastic pacifier necklaces, yin-yangs everywhere, and Yikes! pencils and stuff. My fiance found some at his house, the green and purple particle wood sharpened down to just three inches long.
The Bookmobile, and extension of our local library, came every three weeks and parked right across the street from our little house, and I devoured The Babysitters Club and Goosebumps. I think I learned to love reading then. Not sure when the biting sarcasm developed.
That was the year we got cable, and it was absolutely amazing. I watched all of one channel, Nickelodeon. Back then, you had to order the Disney Channel extra, so I never watched that as a kid. Nickelodeon was enough. It had previously been a treat reserved only for weekend trips to my Gramma's house in Virginia, or for when we were at my Granny's house across town. Snick was the perk of a weekend at Gramma's, and Are You Afraid of the Dark rocked my world.
In 1995, I discovered Star Wars. My parents rented it, and it blew my mind. I'd never seen anything like it before. I mean yeah, I watched Star Trek The Next Generation on TV, but I have only a few memories of that and no emotional attachment. Star Wars made me love movies. Better than that, it made me love good storytelling. I had a homemade Star Wars cake that year, with Darth Vader, Emperor Palpatine, R2-D2, and Luke Skywalker on it. The writing was done in blue gel on white icing. Epic.
My goal was to eventually make a lightsaber with a white blade. I daydreamed of finding that special crystal in my schoolyard.
We didn't have Internet yet then. I mean, it existed, but for most of the public, it was a little bit of a novelty. We didn't even have a computer. Family friends did, and I remember playing with a program at my parents' friends' house where you would speak into the microphone, and the parrot on-screen would repeat what you said. It yelled at me when I used the word stupid once.
I thought the internet looked so cool, with all the AOL keywords and games and a whole world out there, right at our fingertips.
I begged my dad to get a computer with a "motive" so we could get on the internet.
He laughed at me. The computer with the "motive" didn't come until the next year, around the same time we got Minnie.
After 1995, it got crazy. Technology changed at a dazzling rate of speed. I didn't know what a cell phone was then, and I had no idea, in 1995, what a laptop was. (I would later discover this technical marvel while watching Independence Day, in which a Powerbook was used to kill aliens.) No year, for the rest of that decade, ever felt as aweome. Blips of cool popped up here and there, such as seeing Star Wars (Special Edition!) in the theater and getting a puppy (10th birthday...double-digits rock). Back before the new Star Wars trilogy came along and partly broke the hearts of fans everywhere (but we're loyal lovers.) Back before the Y2K scare, before 1999 got stale, and back when kids weren't lazy. Back when anything was possible, but what else could have been better? Forget tomorrow. Today, there are pools to cannonball into, Death Stars to blow up, just in front of the swingset, and Warball games to play, beat or be beaten.
Yes, 1995 was truly a great time to be nine years old. I don't think the world's any worse. We're certainly aware of more now. I think we might've appreciated childhood a little more if ourselves now could go back in time and show our younger selves that this Saturday at the pool is a blessed and rare day off. But why ruin the fun?
And by the way, I still want that white lightsaber.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Reflections of a Future Terrible Parent, Part 2
Continuing from Part 1.
I'd never really labeled myself as anything beyond being a Christian. I went to a Baptist church back then. We started going because my cousin would go to Awana with her friend, who went to that church. I started going to Awana, and it just naturally happened that we started attending, because my dad grew up there. His parents had become Christians in the 1960s and that was the home church they chose. They still go there. The church also basically ran my school, but I was never aware of it beyond simply knowing. They felt separate and as a result, I never really felt that close to the church. I went on Wednesday nights, and later we'd start going more regularly on Sundays, and I did get involved more in high school. That was pretty fun. But I never labeled myself a fundamentalist. My clothing was decidedly unmodest (my shorts went mid-thigh and I wore a bathing suit to a mixed swimming pool) and my family wasn't that big into hymns. For awhile, I only believed in the King James Version of the Bible, but for no other reason that I had been told it was the best. I don't believe that anymore, and I'm ashamed to say that I made that declaration without any sort of backing or research, checking around, or even reading it much for myself. Despite all this, I was still pretty normal, and I was never a fundamentalist.
My reading tastes varied, as I mentioned before. I didn't delve into the classics, though. I read teen lit, and a lot of it. I'm sure that a lot of it was vapid and shallow, and I know some of my friends would raise an eyebrow and issue an intellectual disclaimer that the movie version was cute, but sort of silly. All this to say, I didn't grow up reading Pride and Prejudice voraciously. Fine if you do. I more enjoyed Treasure Island and Journey to the Center of the Earth. To this day, I still haven't read it. I might. Pride and Prejudice came with my Kindle app, and I own the 2005 movie (which I did like quite a bit. But it, alas, has "too much drama." Or something.) I still read a lot of YA lit. I liked Twilight (sorry to block your potshots here, but that doesn't make me unintelligent either.) I think part of the reason I do like the genre is because my local library didn't have a lot of it to offer that I liked then, and I was often too embarrassed to venture into the children's section. I'm writing a YA novel. Jane Eyre, as I understand the story, freaks me out a little. I mean, ew, the guy locks his schizo wife up in the attic and starts skirt-chasing a 20 year old, who likes it. That's officially grosser than Twilight right there.
So I won't make my sons or daughters read the classics because they're "good for them." I will train them to make the right decisions and to analyze everything, just like I do, and just like my fiance does. I didn't need ten thousand rules growing up because my parents taught me to think.
I said before that my mom went back to work once I was old enough to babysit my brother in the afternoons. I never got paid; it was just something normal that I did, every day, because my mom sacrificed a lot so we could have a private education. By no means did we live outrageously; our household was a frugal one. There were plenty of summer vacations, because building those memories is so important to my family, even today.
My junior year at BJU, I had this roommate who was mostly a very sweet person, but very sheltered. She was engaged to a man (and they're married now) who very much considered himself an authority in her life, in such instances as not letting her speak to any of her male friends. (I won't even touch on that. Make of it what you will.) Well, somehow there was some discussion or other in the room one day, between me and her and my two freshman roommates, about women working in WWII. (My great-grandmother was one such woman. I'm very proud of that.) I don't remember much about what happened through most of the conversation, but at the end, the older roommate said "But I believe women should have just stayed home after the war" in a condescending tone.*
And now, I can only think how spoiled rotten she was. She wasn't alone either. I know myself that stay-at-home moms do stuff, all day, especially if the kids are very young. It's a hard job. But I have known so many people who hold a quiet judgment for women like both my grandmothers, at least one of my great-grandmothers, and my mom. In a crowd of tenth generation Christian future homemakers and preachers' kids, I know I stood out, having come from a long line of women who worked and sacrificed a lot to give to their families.
So I will not hesitate to work if it means that my children will otherwise not eat or not have decent clothes.
That brings me to another point. See, growing up in a regular school, even if it was a private school, helped me understand people. Now, that's one thing that's not so unique at my alma mater, but there still are a lot of people in this country who are homeschooled. The US is pretty cool about that sort of thing, and I'm glad. But I'm also happy that I was never homeschooled, and it's very likely something I won't be doing.
I can hear the resounding "whys" now. I've actually been asked that, and in a confrontational manner. As if I hadn't thought it through. As if I had no idea what I was talking about.
But I have thought it through, and I have several reasons for not wanting to homeschool my children. For one, I don't want them to get a lopsided education. I only studied chemistry in college for one year, and, spoiler alert, I wasn't good at it. Same goes for math. Now, if there's something concrete I can focus on, like learning by doing stuff hands-on, then I'm good. That's why Physics was easier for me than Chemistry. Not easy, just easier. I still struggled, but I understood it better. I'm even convinced that Calculus could be conquered if one uses objects instead of concepts. But see, I don't know that my kids will learn the same way I do. They might, they might not. I don't want them to get an education so heavy in history and literature that they miss out on math and science and lose any opportunity for a calling. Even if I were to be a stay-at-home mom, my future husband, who is good at math and science, would be at work all day. I wouldn't be satisfied having my kids learn from a DVD. If it's obvious that one of my kids will love math or science, but has no way of learning past the most basic concepts, then there is a failure somewhere. Not everyone can major in English and love it. I sure wouldn't. Props to y'all who do. I believe an actual teacher needs to be there to help where I couldn't. If times are tough from a monetary perspective, I will work too. I've been told that there are bad influences in schools. And that all goes back to raising your child right.
So, I say again, I also will most likely not be homeschooling my children.
What I don't look forward to is the quiet judgment. I already know someone who looked quite surprised, and somewhat unpleasantly so, that I'm a whole two months older than my fiance, because "the husband should be older." Too late, I guess.
I'm not trying to insult anyone with the things I believe and the things I will do; I simply ask that the favor is returned. I'm not horribly altered because my life didn't have fresh baked muffins**, classes at home, and crappy old literature all the time, every day. I had a normal childhood and a normal adolescence. Yet still, I've had people, even friends, tell me the same thing a few times: "I didn't think you'd be a nice person until I got to know you." I don't even know what to say to that.
There's probably lots of other ways I'll manage to be a terrible parent, but I don't care. I learned from the awesomest. Cheers to "terrible" parenting.
*She also, for some reason, thought that my Dad's parents did not have a big wedding because they weren't church-going people at the time, and that it just wasn't important to them. My grandparents were poor. They couldn't afford a fancy old-money wedding, and were married by a minister in his office at his church. Same goes for my Mom's parents, who did attend church regularly. Tsk. Spoiled.
**I can bake the heck out of a chocolate chip cookie, though. Just sayin'.
I'd never really labeled myself as anything beyond being a Christian. I went to a Baptist church back then. We started going because my cousin would go to Awana with her friend, who went to that church. I started going to Awana, and it just naturally happened that we started attending, because my dad grew up there. His parents had become Christians in the 1960s and that was the home church they chose. They still go there. The church also basically ran my school, but I was never aware of it beyond simply knowing. They felt separate and as a result, I never really felt that close to the church. I went on Wednesday nights, and later we'd start going more regularly on Sundays, and I did get involved more in high school. That was pretty fun. But I never labeled myself a fundamentalist. My clothing was decidedly unmodest (my shorts went mid-thigh and I wore a bathing suit to a mixed swimming pool) and my family wasn't that big into hymns. For awhile, I only believed in the King James Version of the Bible, but for no other reason that I had been told it was the best. I don't believe that anymore, and I'm ashamed to say that I made that declaration without any sort of backing or research, checking around, or even reading it much for myself. Despite all this, I was still pretty normal, and I was never a fundamentalist.
My reading tastes varied, as I mentioned before. I didn't delve into the classics, though. I read teen lit, and a lot of it. I'm sure that a lot of it was vapid and shallow, and I know some of my friends would raise an eyebrow and issue an intellectual disclaimer that the movie version was cute, but sort of silly. All this to say, I didn't grow up reading Pride and Prejudice voraciously. Fine if you do. I more enjoyed Treasure Island and Journey to the Center of the Earth. To this day, I still haven't read it. I might. Pride and Prejudice came with my Kindle app, and I own the 2005 movie (which I did like quite a bit. But it, alas, has "too much drama." Or something.) I still read a lot of YA lit. I liked Twilight (sorry to block your potshots here, but that doesn't make me unintelligent either.) I think part of the reason I do like the genre is because my local library didn't have a lot of it to offer that I liked then, and I was often too embarrassed to venture into the children's section. I'm writing a YA novel. Jane Eyre, as I understand the story, freaks me out a little. I mean, ew, the guy locks his schizo wife up in the attic and starts skirt-chasing a 20 year old, who likes it. That's officially grosser than Twilight right there.
So I won't make my sons or daughters read the classics because they're "good for them." I will train them to make the right decisions and to analyze everything, just like I do, and just like my fiance does. I didn't need ten thousand rules growing up because my parents taught me to think.
I said before that my mom went back to work once I was old enough to babysit my brother in the afternoons. I never got paid; it was just something normal that I did, every day, because my mom sacrificed a lot so we could have a private education. By no means did we live outrageously; our household was a frugal one. There were plenty of summer vacations, because building those memories is so important to my family, even today.
My junior year at BJU, I had this roommate who was mostly a very sweet person, but very sheltered. She was engaged to a man (and they're married now) who very much considered himself an authority in her life, in such instances as not letting her speak to any of her male friends. (I won't even touch on that. Make of it what you will.) Well, somehow there was some discussion or other in the room one day, between me and her and my two freshman roommates, about women working in WWII. (My great-grandmother was one such woman. I'm very proud of that.) I don't remember much about what happened through most of the conversation, but at the end, the older roommate said "But I believe women should have just stayed home after the war" in a condescending tone.*
And now, I can only think how spoiled rotten she was. She wasn't alone either. I know myself that stay-at-home moms do stuff, all day, especially if the kids are very young. It's a hard job. But I have known so many people who hold a quiet judgment for women like both my grandmothers, at least one of my great-grandmothers, and my mom. In a crowd of tenth generation Christian future homemakers and preachers' kids, I know I stood out, having come from a long line of women who worked and sacrificed a lot to give to their families.
So I will not hesitate to work if it means that my children will otherwise not eat or not have decent clothes.
That brings me to another point. See, growing up in a regular school, even if it was a private school, helped me understand people. Now, that's one thing that's not so unique at my alma mater, but there still are a lot of people in this country who are homeschooled. The US is pretty cool about that sort of thing, and I'm glad. But I'm also happy that I was never homeschooled, and it's very likely something I won't be doing.
I can hear the resounding "whys" now. I've actually been asked that, and in a confrontational manner. As if I hadn't thought it through. As if I had no idea what I was talking about.
But I have thought it through, and I have several reasons for not wanting to homeschool my children. For one, I don't want them to get a lopsided education. I only studied chemistry in college for one year, and, spoiler alert, I wasn't good at it. Same goes for math. Now, if there's something concrete I can focus on, like learning by doing stuff hands-on, then I'm good. That's why Physics was easier for me than Chemistry. Not easy, just easier. I still struggled, but I understood it better. I'm even convinced that Calculus could be conquered if one uses objects instead of concepts. But see, I don't know that my kids will learn the same way I do. They might, they might not. I don't want them to get an education so heavy in history and literature that they miss out on math and science and lose any opportunity for a calling. Even if I were to be a stay-at-home mom, my future husband, who is good at math and science, would be at work all day. I wouldn't be satisfied having my kids learn from a DVD. If it's obvious that one of my kids will love math or science, but has no way of learning past the most basic concepts, then there is a failure somewhere. Not everyone can major in English and love it. I sure wouldn't. Props to y'all who do. I believe an actual teacher needs to be there to help where I couldn't. If times are tough from a monetary perspective, I will work too. I've been told that there are bad influences in schools. And that all goes back to raising your child right.
So, I say again, I also will most likely not be homeschooling my children.
What I don't look forward to is the quiet judgment. I already know someone who looked quite surprised, and somewhat unpleasantly so, that I'm a whole two months older than my fiance, because "the husband should be older." Too late, I guess.
I'm not trying to insult anyone with the things I believe and the things I will do; I simply ask that the favor is returned. I'm not horribly altered because my life didn't have fresh baked muffins**, classes at home, and crappy old literature all the time, every day. I had a normal childhood and a normal adolescence. Yet still, I've had people, even friends, tell me the same thing a few times: "I didn't think you'd be a nice person until I got to know you." I don't even know what to say to that.
There's probably lots of other ways I'll manage to be a terrible parent, but I don't care. I learned from the awesomest. Cheers to "terrible" parenting.
*She also, for some reason, thought that my Dad's parents did not have a big wedding because they weren't church-going people at the time, and that it just wasn't important to them. My grandparents were poor. They couldn't afford a fancy old-money wedding, and were married by a minister in his office at his church. Same goes for my Mom's parents, who did attend church regularly. Tsk. Spoiled.
**I can bake the heck out of a chocolate chip cookie, though. Just sayin'.
Wednesday, April 11, 2012
Reflections of a Future Terrible Parent, Part 1
When I decided in the spring of 2005, on a whim, to apply to and attend Bob Jones University, I had no idea what I'd be getting myself into. I was a little familiar with the school, mostly through some of the textbooks my Christian school used (there were some historical inaccuracies and brushovers) and the students who visited from the school (way too smiley.) But, for some reason that wasn't at the time at all obvious to me, I knew that I needed to be at that college in the fall of 2005. When I decided that, I was at a senior retreat for my class. I didn't know then that the man I'll be marrying in a few months was sitting in the same room, with his senior class. Later that year, because of a conversation with a good friend who also went to BJU (the only other person in my class to do so,) I met my now-fiance. It was more than I ever could have thought I'd receive simply for following an impression upon my soul. I never expected to even have many friends, as I'm not outgoing. But I have those too, thank God.
Everyone knows Bob Jones University is not without its flaws. It's become quite infamous lately, for what I think are grand missteps in judgement. It's also a place with many rules. Those I don't care about. I'm not here to really talk about Bob Jones University. It's the attitudes within a few in my generation (and older) that I encountered both at the school and outside of it that really cemented in my mind certain things I will not do when I am a parent.
I grew up in the 90s, as a normal kid. We moved around town a few times, but because I went to a private Christian school, I never had to change where I went. It was always the same place. Other than having to wear dresses every day to school, my childhood was not at all different than most other kids that grew up then. I devoured the Goosebumps book series, as well as The Babysitters Club. I don't think I owned many of the latter, and only one of the former. I also read the American Girl books (the ones that went with the dolls), but I didn't own many of them. The Bookmobile coming every 3 weeks was my own private Christmas; we didn't even have to go to the library, because it came to us. I loved that. I got my fill of BSC and Goosebumps, as well as other scary books for kids. I liked the spooky stuff. Seriously, the 90s was a great time to be nine years old. Before we got cable, a weekend trip to my Gramma's house in Virginia was a treat, because she did have cable, and therefore, we could watch SNICK on Saturday night. My favorite was the still-scary Are You Afraid of the Dark. I loved that show.
Until I was about eleven years old, my mom stayed home to take care of my little brother. When he went to kindergarten, she went back to work (she's a nurse.) This left me with the responsibility of us kids staying home alone every day, which was fine. We watched Kids WB and Fox 50 Kids. Animaniacs was an extraordinary show. I watched three straight incarnations of Power Rangers, as well as this show with some knights in Ireland. I freaking loved Mystic Knights. That show rocked. And none of it was educational. Saturday mornings were much the same, because ABC had all the best shows by then. (CBS had my heart for a while, though, as did Fox, which played Peter Pan and the Pirates.) Disney's Doug wasn't as good as the original, which aired on Nickelodeon. Still watched it, though. My best friend (who also went to my school) lived up the street, around the corner, and up this insane hill that probably wouldn't be so bad if I gave it a whirl at th age of 25. I biked everywhere in my neighborhood, exploring every nook and cranny to my hearts content. I finished 6th grade, started shaving my legs, and started junior high. I remember being a Britney Spears fan, back before she sorta lost it. Seventh grade was marvelously awkward for me. After that year, my best friend moved away, and we moved out of our neighborhood and across town. Another friend transferred, and the only link was a phone number (we didn't get internet until later that year), and a dude whom I'd known since 5th grade and whom I had declared to be my mortal enemy. Sort of. (Same dude was the friend who went to BJU. Funny how things turn out, ain't it?) It was a lonely year.
High school was better. Actually, it was pretty great. I was still an introvert, so I was the quiet one, but who cared if I could get away with stuff in my school. 9/11/2001 was at the beginning of my freshman year, and it was pretty scary because North Carolina has its good share of military bases. At some point in that time frame, I transitioned from my rather conservative peach eyeshadow and pink lipstick to smudged eyeliner in blue, green, or purple, and dark lipstick in red, purple, and sometimes silver. Blush was not something I was a fan of. Pallor was my friend. I liked books and stuff with bows and arrows in them, but I was also a girly-girl. The US invaded Iraq in 2003. 2004 brought Green Day's American Idiot, so that was awesome, but we also worried about the draft starting up again, and whether women would be drafted as well, if it came to that. I graduated in 2005, at the age of eighteen, and started preparing to go away to college.
I was not prepared for what I'd face from other Christians, since my upbringing in a Christian home had been so so very regular.
Everyone knows Bob Jones University is not without its flaws. It's become quite infamous lately, for what I think are grand missteps in judgement. It's also a place with many rules. Those I don't care about. I'm not here to really talk about Bob Jones University. It's the attitudes within a few in my generation (and older) that I encountered both at the school and outside of it that really cemented in my mind certain things I will not do when I am a parent.
I grew up in the 90s, as a normal kid. We moved around town a few times, but because I went to a private Christian school, I never had to change where I went. It was always the same place. Other than having to wear dresses every day to school, my childhood was not at all different than most other kids that grew up then. I devoured the Goosebumps book series, as well as The Babysitters Club. I don't think I owned many of the latter, and only one of the former. I also read the American Girl books (the ones that went with the dolls), but I didn't own many of them. The Bookmobile coming every 3 weeks was my own private Christmas; we didn't even have to go to the library, because it came to us. I loved that. I got my fill of BSC and Goosebumps, as well as other scary books for kids. I liked the spooky stuff. Seriously, the 90s was a great time to be nine years old. Before we got cable, a weekend trip to my Gramma's house in Virginia was a treat, because she did have cable, and therefore, we could watch SNICK on Saturday night. My favorite was the still-scary Are You Afraid of the Dark. I loved that show.
Until I was about eleven years old, my mom stayed home to take care of my little brother. When he went to kindergarten, she went back to work (she's a nurse.) This left me with the responsibility of us kids staying home alone every day, which was fine. We watched Kids WB and Fox 50 Kids. Animaniacs was an extraordinary show. I watched three straight incarnations of Power Rangers, as well as this show with some knights in Ireland. I freaking loved Mystic Knights. That show rocked. And none of it was educational. Saturday mornings were much the same, because ABC had all the best shows by then. (CBS had my heart for a while, though, as did Fox, which played Peter Pan and the Pirates.) Disney's Doug wasn't as good as the original, which aired on Nickelodeon. Still watched it, though. My best friend (who also went to my school) lived up the street, around the corner, and up this insane hill that probably wouldn't be so bad if I gave it a whirl at th age of 25. I biked everywhere in my neighborhood, exploring every nook and cranny to my hearts content. I finished 6th grade, started shaving my legs, and started junior high. I remember being a Britney Spears fan, back before she sorta lost it. Seventh grade was marvelously awkward for me. After that year, my best friend moved away, and we moved out of our neighborhood and across town. Another friend transferred, and the only link was a phone number (we didn't get internet until later that year), and a dude whom I'd known since 5th grade and whom I had declared to be my mortal enemy. Sort of. (Same dude was the friend who went to BJU. Funny how things turn out, ain't it?) It was a lonely year.
High school was better. Actually, it was pretty great. I was still an introvert, so I was the quiet one, but who cared if I could get away with stuff in my school. 9/11/2001 was at the beginning of my freshman year, and it was pretty scary because North Carolina has its good share of military bases. At some point in that time frame, I transitioned from my rather conservative peach eyeshadow and pink lipstick to smudged eyeliner in blue, green, or purple, and dark lipstick in red, purple, and sometimes silver. Blush was not something I was a fan of. Pallor was my friend. I liked books and stuff with bows and arrows in them, but I was also a girly-girl. The US invaded Iraq in 2003. 2004 brought Green Day's American Idiot, so that was awesome, but we also worried about the draft starting up again, and whether women would be drafted as well, if it came to that. I graduated in 2005, at the age of eighteen, and started preparing to go away to college.
I was not prepared for what I'd face from other Christians, since my upbringing in a Christian home had been so so very regular.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
A Look Back: The Vacuum Cleaner That Ended the Cold War
Oh yes.
You've probably never heard of the brand. It used to be called CMS, and it's now called Cleartrak. Yep, a vacuum cleaner.
We've had this vacuum cleaner for at least as long as my existence (24 years). As I am still living at home and both my parents have full-time jobs (something I'm also looking for...), I was called upon to vacuum the living room today. Not a problem. I don't mind, as long as everything's in good working order. It was; I vacuumed; our gray living room carpet is now in a clean condition.
See, this vacuum was purchased during the 1980s, the second best decade ever. (The 90s is first. Always.) Reagan was president, NASA was working again, and my parents purchased this beast of a cleaning machine through Amway.
The CMS Cleartrak Amway vacuum cleaner (complete with globe logo) is incredibly heavy. My dog weighs about 35 pounds, so I'm gonna estimate this bad boy at somewhere between 50 and 60 pounds. It has a clear cylinder and a gray/blue theme and lots of scuff marks from at least 24 years of life and 6 different houses. You turn it on, and it roars.
See, like everything else in the 1980s, this cleaning device is big and over the top. And it still works.* If Reagan had been in possession of one of these babies and flashed it around in Berlin, Mr. Gorbachev would probably have torn down the Wall himself. With his bare hands. Just the black hole-esque startup sound single-handedly inspired the movie Red Dawn. Yes, we still use this shining pinnacle of capitalism to suck all that dirty commie mess off the floor.
It's quite poetic.
I admit, I hated the thing when I was younger. As I grew and my responsibilities for keeping stuff clean added up, I've really started to love the old boy. Let's call him Chester. The loud noises that once bothered me (greatly) are now a welcome sound as Chester gets the living room, the hallway, my room, anything else clean. My dad says it's one of the best cleaners out there, and because it's lasted so long with only a few minor belt issues, I'm inclined to believe him.
Chester is something that's leftover from another time in my life, when I was naive and innocent, and that was okay.
And as much as I hate vacuuming anything, I know I'll have to get my own vacuum cleaner when I get an apartment. I know I'm gonna miss ol' Chester a lot, and not just because he's an awesome vacuum cleaner. What I do know is, I'll probably be borrowing him as an old friend to come and break the champagne bottle and inaugurate the new apartment and do what he does best: vacuum.
*Until a few years ago, my parents still had most of the same appliances that they received as wedding gifts in 1983. And it all still worked awesomely. I still use their hand-mixer, which is still mighty.
You've probably never heard of the brand. It used to be called CMS, and it's now called Cleartrak. Yep, a vacuum cleaner.
We've had this vacuum cleaner for at least as long as my existence (24 years). As I am still living at home and both my parents have full-time jobs (something I'm also looking for...), I was called upon to vacuum the living room today. Not a problem. I don't mind, as long as everything's in good working order. It was; I vacuumed; our gray living room carpet is now in a clean condition.
See, this vacuum was purchased during the 1980s, the second best decade ever. (The 90s is first. Always.) Reagan was president, NASA was working again, and my parents purchased this beast of a cleaning machine through Amway.
The CMS Cleartrak Amway vacuum cleaner (complete with globe logo) is incredibly heavy. My dog weighs about 35 pounds, so I'm gonna estimate this bad boy at somewhere between 50 and 60 pounds. It has a clear cylinder and a gray/blue theme and lots of scuff marks from at least 24 years of life and 6 different houses. You turn it on, and it roars.
See, like everything else in the 1980s, this cleaning device is big and over the top. And it still works.* If Reagan had been in possession of one of these babies and flashed it around in Berlin, Mr. Gorbachev would probably have torn down the Wall himself. With his bare hands. Just the black hole-esque startup sound single-handedly inspired the movie Red Dawn. Yes, we still use this shining pinnacle of capitalism to suck all that dirty commie mess off the floor.
It's quite poetic.
I admit, I hated the thing when I was younger. As I grew and my responsibilities for keeping stuff clean added up, I've really started to love the old boy. Let's call him Chester. The loud noises that once bothered me (greatly) are now a welcome sound as Chester gets the living room, the hallway, my room, anything else clean. My dad says it's one of the best cleaners out there, and because it's lasted so long with only a few minor belt issues, I'm inclined to believe him.
Chester is something that's leftover from another time in my life, when I was naive and innocent, and that was okay.
And as much as I hate vacuuming anything, I know I'll have to get my own vacuum cleaner when I get an apartment. I know I'm gonna miss ol' Chester a lot, and not just because he's an awesome vacuum cleaner. What I do know is, I'll probably be borrowing him as an old friend to come and break the champagne bottle and inaugurate the new apartment and do what he does best: vacuum.
*Until a few years ago, my parents still had most of the same appliances that they received as wedding gifts in 1983. And it all still worked awesomely. I still use their hand-mixer, which is still mighty.
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