Growing Up: Holding on and Letting Go

The box is wrapped in early 2000s Target wrapping paper. While the paper lies coated with a layer of dust that marks its age like tree rings, it seems to agree that the early 2000s are something worth holding onto. The Barney-purple, floral design’s vibrancy once demanded attention from children as they strolled through the Target aisles, waiting for their mother to cave in and buy them popcorn. The ripped-around-the-edges wrapping paper seems to remember that feeling for me, the rush of excitement when I got to ride in those Target shopping carts, riding shotgun as my sister sat beside me in the driver’s seat.

12 by 8 inches.

That was all the space that the box took up in the back of my parents’ closet. Of course, hidden behind the hamper on my mom’s side of the closet, where all of the Christmas presents are hidden, duh! And while skeptical and impatient, 7-year-old me did not think twice about this box as I pushed it aside to confirm that I was, in fact, getting an American Girl Doll for Christmas, the box stayed put and waited for me to come back.

“Again!” Claire shouted as she came up for air. It was the breath that said “finally.” The long-awaited breath that confirmed she was right when convincing her mom and me, her nanny, that she was big enough. With her goggles wonky and eager feet paddling, she made her way to her big brother for a high five, confirming that he had seen what she just did. She had finally jumped off the diving board at 6 years old. And for the hours following, “Again!” was all that she had to say to make sure that we knew her plans for the rest of the day.

When I came home from school this summer, I knew it would be different. Friends don’t stay put, construction workers cover old brick streets with asphalt, and the days seem to be numbered by running out of gas, paychecks, and cups of coffee that aren’t even that good. They just make me feel somewhat qualified to live an adult life. And while I once counted down the days leading up to summer, school bell after school bell, this has been a summer that I was not prepared for. I found myself up late at night, feeling torn between nostalgia and letting go. And as they both pulled me, I wasn’t sure which one would hurt more if I snapped.

Just a few nights ago, my mother came to me as I prepared to climb into bed.

“I think you should look through this,” she said as she handed over that purple box. And while I wasn’t sure if it was the right time to run towards nostalgia and open the box, it seemed as though that 12 by 8 box knew that I was ready more than I could have planned for myself.

“What day is tomorrow?” Claire asked as I headed out for the day.

“Well, tomorrow is Saturday, so that’s the weekend,” I reminded her.

“Oh, well when is the weekend over?”

“The weekend is over on Monday.”

“Well, when’s Monday?” she insisted to understand.

As I opened the box, I knew what would happen. It would keep me up later than I should be, and I would be tired the next day. Did I even have time to look through all of this? I mean, I had to be up at 7 a.m. tomorrow for a phone call, and I didn’t want to be groggy.

Tomorrow was Monday, the weekend was over. I wondered if Claire had the same understanding of the speed of summer. As each weekend ended, I was reminded more and more of the days that passed. I never had to ask, “When’s Monday?” I was always preparing for it well in advance.

And while I feared sitting in that nostalgia, I found myself sitting on my floor, criss-cross-applesauce, two hours later, rummaging through old stories, letters, and finger paintings that my mom has been saving for me.

Throughout my childhood, I lost track of the days as that box became home to the memories that filled them.

I found messy finger paintings that were as rushed as I could expect them to be, for I knew snack time would come once I finished. I found my aspirations to become a marine biologist because I liked dolphins in the fourth grade (that ship has sailed). I found an old story that I had written when I was 6 about a pregnant dog, which I proudly read to my entire family at my birthday party. Luckily, the story was interesting to them at the time. That being said, their only other form of entertainment was golf on TV, but I thought that I had written an award winning, six-paged “book.”

As a 20-year-old that avoids thinking about how I’m actually 20 years old, growing up has convinced me that I have to choose. I have to choose then or now. Here or there. Them or them. I don’t feel ready yet. I don’t always feel ready to leave the places that have watched me grow into who I am. I don’t always feel ready to start counting the days. I don’t always feel ready for each birthday to mark whether or not I’ve accomplished what I promised my younger self I would.

12 by 8 inches. And I had finally reached the bottom. After laughing at old letters from my Grandma that made me wonder how anyone ever put up with me, uncrumbling old stick figure drawings that reminded me why I stuck with writing, and reminiscing on the days when the accomplishment that mattered most was how much money I could make at my lemonade stand, I wondered what could be left.

Sitting at the bottom, lying upside down, the photo is labeled: “July, 2004. Meg’s first time jumping off the diving board.”

“Again!” replayed in my head as I stared at the picture. At just 5 years old, that moment was monumental enough for me to wait for my mother to whip out the camera, even though I’m sure my restless feet were tapping as I awaited the big jump. Just 15 years ago, I had been the girl on that diving board. I had built up the courage to finally take the jump, to do something that even my parents weren’t sure was a good idea, I’m sure.

And in that moment, I knew that I didn’t have to choose. I don’t have to choose between my childhood and adulthood. I don’t have to choose between forgetting the days and counting them, and I don’t have to choose between then and now.

And as I navigate this new chapter of my life, I remember that 5-year-old me that wrote stories because I had one to tell and jumped off diving boards because I knew I could, and I feel all of the years of my life meet me where I am today.

12 by 8 inches is not all that’s left of those years, it is simply a reminder that each version of myself lives within me as I navigate the world around me. And while sometimes I wish that I would have appreciated my childhood years in the moment, I can still feel and see them in the little things every day:

I feel it when my grandma comes over and brings her special pies that she makes just how we like them.

I feel it when I try a new ice cream flavor that tastes just like a pink Starburst on a summer’s day in 2006.

I feel it in the sunburn that calls my face home every summer, as I will always forget to reapply sunscreen.

I feel it in the pit of my stomach when I know that I have done something wrong or hurt someone’s feelings.

I feel it when I find a dollar in the back pocket of my pants and suddenly feel $100 richer.

I feel it when I’m ¾ through a book that is so good that I embrace the blinding light from my reading lamp at 2 a.m. just to find out what happens.

I feel it when I meet new people that remind me of someone from the past, or give me hope for who is yet to come in the future.

I feel it in the first fireflies of the summer, and my uncontrollable urge to catch them.

I feel it when bermuda shorts come back in style.

I feel it as childhood friends move to new cities, and I wonder where I will end up.

I feel it as I lie awake at night, imagining what life might be like in ten years. I feel it in the anxiety that comes with not knowing, but I feel it with the comfort of knowing where I’ve been. And I feel it in the strength of where I’ve been, as it will always stay with me.