Did you ever think that your past selves were buried and forgotten, maybe just remnants like white bones scattered by the wind? Think again. All those versions of you are still very much alive, layered within your skin. They aren’t just memories; they are like jars in a pantry, lined up in order of significance: tea, cornmeal, sugar, flicker, flame. Open the lid and inhale deeply—do you remember that? Now your hair is ablaze with a different kind of fire.
When I first started to notice boys, I wasn’t a busy adult navigating the aisles of a store for birthday wrap and sunscreen. I didn’t have gray hairs sprouting in unexpected places or the various signs of a body that had seen better days. I didn’t laugh too hard over a beer and end up with a little accident in my pajamas. I was just a regular kid—well, somewhat regular. It was sixth grade, and I had a flat chest, brightly colored sneakers, and hair that sparkled under the clips I used to keep it back because I wasn’t allowed to cut it into a fashionable style. I read Joan Aiken novels and crafted a finger-knitted rug for my dollhouse while enjoying episodes of Little House on the Prairie. But oh, I also had my thoughts about Mark Jupiter. I dreamed of holding his hand when “Rock with You” played at the roller rink, my skates shimmering like tiny pieces of electricity. After school ended, I eagerly sent a roll of film to the lab, counting the days to see his dimples again, though they turned out grainier than I had hoped.
Then came seventh grade, where I briefly dated the shaggy-haired Jono Gallin at a bar mitzvah disco party, a relationship that lasted only as long as our awkward dance. In eighth grade, I found myself infatuated with a boy in math class who had eczema on his knuckles and an impressive afro. There was also the smart boy in science who passed me a note that said “I like you too” and later went on to Yale. Boys, boys, boys—my early crushes were a blueprint for what was to come.
Fast forward to the moment when my own child reached middle school. Suddenly, I was reminded of those innocent crushes as I watched his friends laugh and joke around. I listened to their boisterous laughter echoing through the house, and it filled me with nostalgia. This was the age of awkwardness, where faces seemed to be mismatched puzzles of features in a constant state of change. My son brought home a friend with a mouthful of crooked teeth, a sight so endearing that I wondered if perhaps this was an evolutionary phase—who could possibly find themselves attracted to the scruffy faces and tangled hair? Yet, I saw a flicker of the boys I once had a crush on, and I felt that familiar flutter of affection all over again.
But crushes morph into something deeper as we grow up. The boys I once had innocent crushes on transformed into the muscled athletes of my teenage years. The brown-skinned boys would press me against the gym wall after track meets, and I would lose myself in those moments of passion. Their youthful exuberance and physicality taught me about desire, and those memories became part of my identity. I didn’t remain stuck in a time warp of nostalgia; my life continued to evolve, leading me through relationships and experiences that shaped who I am today.
I often clarify to friends that nostalgia is not the same as pedophilia, and my daughter, ever the curious listener, pipes in with a question about the meaning of the latter term. It’s a reminder that my past is not simply a romanticized version of childhood; rather, it’s a tapestry of experiences. As I drive to my son’s high school, I see those teenagers—loose-limbed and confident—who remind me of a younger version of myself, hidden beneath the facade of a busy mom who bakes gluten-free treats. I am aware that I have moved on, yet there are moments of longing for that youthful spirit, a feeling that is both bittersweet and liberating.
And then there’s The Father, still echoing the boy he once was—a man who sometimes breaks through the mundane routine of adulthood to connect with the passion he once felt. He is not just a figure who merely drives the family car; he retains that essence of youth that still stirs something inside.
This reflection serves as a reminder that while we grow and change, the fragments of our past selves remain with us, shaping our present and future. For those on a journey of family building, resources like this one about intracevical insemination can be invaluable. And if you’re looking for more information about pregnancy, check this out. For additional insights on home insemination, feel free to explore this post.
In summary, the evolution from childhood crushes to adult relationships is a journey filled with nostalgia and growth. We carry our past selves with us, navigating the complexities of love and life.