I grew up in a small town in New York, a place I often refer to as the borough that time forgot. When I left for four years, I realized just how unchanged it truly was. I never envisioned myself returning to my hometown, let alone raising my son in the same place where I spent my childhood. It’s not that my hometown is a bad place; it’s just that I felt I had outgrown it.
Yet, life has a way of bringing us back to our roots. Now, I find comfort in the familiarity of my old neighborhood, where the bakery I frequented after school still stands, the corner barbershop remains, and the hardware store is unchanged.
Many businesses have shifted over the years, but I still recall the past. The Sri Lankan restaurant that used to be a dry cleaners, the health food store that transformed into a laundromat, and the hair salon I visited as a child that just closed.
I take my son to many of the same spots I adored during my youth. It’s magical to witness him enjoying these places just as I did. Our adventures often stay close to home; with a playground and library within walking distance, we find ample fun nearby.
I spent countless hours at the library, getting lost in books and attending special events. As a child, I was a bookworm, always leaving with a stack of the latest reads. My son isn’t quite as enthusiastic about reading yet, but he still loves the library. He begs to go at least twice a week to explore the play area, which has seen some improvements since I was young. Sometimes, he wants to read, and I find myself nestled in one of the beanbag chairs, surrounded by the same book racks I once adored.
He loves being outdoors and asks to visit the playground nearly every day. The playground we frequent is the same one I went to with my dad. Occasionally, we take a bus to another park I cherished as a kid, and it’s comforting to see that neither park has truly changed in over two decades.
The giant slide at the distant playground is the same one I slid down for hours as a child. Now, my son has just gained the courage to go down alone while I stand at the bottom, echoing the way my mother did. We swing together, him in my lap, as he joyfully shouts for me to push him higher.
After playing, we stroll by the lake, feeding the ducks and geese Cheerios—always the highlight of our trip. In the summer, he enjoys splashing in the same sprinkler area where I once stumbled and scraped my knees.
Our absolute favorite spot, however, is the Children’s Museum. I’m not exaggerating when I say it feels almost identical to how I remember it as a child. While some exhibits have changed, the “Block Harbor” remains untouched. It’s filled with blocks, a reading nook, and the bow of a giant ship.
Walking into that room with my son transported me back in time; the colors were the same, the ship unchanged, and even the familiar scent brought back waves of nostalgia. I remembered it being my favorite part of the museum, and now it’s where we spend most of our time. I’ve had to carry him out crying because he didn’t want to leave. In those moments, I see glimpses of myself in him, and it fills my heart with joy.
Sharing these cherished memories with my son allows me to see my hometown through his eyes. What is old to me is new to him. He’s amazed to learn these are the same places I once frequented. I hope he creates lasting memories here and, one day, if those places still exist, he can bring his children to share his own stories of growing up.
While my hometown isn’t where I envisioned myself at this stage in life, I feel grateful to share these special moments and treasured locations with my son.
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Summary:
Raising my son in my hometown has been a unique and rewarding experience. I never thought I would return to the place I grew up, but it’s comforting to see how many of my favorite spots remain unchanged. Sharing these special memories and places with my child allows me to see my hometown through fresh eyes, creating a beautiful connection to the past and the future.