Did you think your younger selves were buried deep beneath the surface, like discarded remnants waiting to be forgotten? They’re not gone. They haven’t been swept away by time like a handful of sand. No, they’re still present within you, every version of yourself, lined up like jars in a pantry filled with essential ingredients: tea, flour, sugar, spark, fire. Open the lid and take a breath. Remember that feeling? Now your hair is ablaze with memories.
When I first developed an interest in boys, I wasn’t a mom navigating the parking lot of a supermarket in search of gift wrap and sunscreen. I didn’t have gray hairs sprouting in unexpected places, or the marks of time etched across my forehead from the daily annoyance of cleaning toothpaste from the sink. I wasn’t the woman who chuckled too hard over a cat’s clumsiness, ending up with a bit of a mishap in my pajamas. No, I was just a typical young girl—well, perhaps not typical, but at least a version of normal. In sixth grade, I had a flat chest, patriotic Pro-Keds sneakers, and shiny hair fastened back with barrettes adorned with whales, since a Farrah Fawcett flip was off the table. I lost myself in Joan Aiken novels and finger-knitted a rug for my dollhouse while glued to Little House on the Prairie. Yet, thoughts of Mark Jupiter danced in my mind. I yearned to hold his hand as “Rock with You” played at the roller rink, my skates sparkling like tiny stars. On the last day of school, I sent a roll of film for processing, eagerly awaiting the return of his dimples, only to find them blurrier than I had remembered.
After that, seventh grade rolled around, and I found myself dating short, shaggy-haired Ethan Smith for as long as it took to share a dance at a bar mitzvah disco, his braces a metallic thrill I could almost taste. In eighth grade, I was drawn to the boy in math class whose knuckles bore peeling eczema, and another with curly hair styled into a wild afro. I received a note from a smart classmate sporting wire-rim glasses that simply said, “I like you too,” and blushed a deep red before eventually going on to Yale. Boys, boys, boys.
When your own child steps into middle school, the memories of first crushes resurface, like a flood of nostalgia. When my son’s friends, awkward and metal-mouthed, filled our home, I was reminded of puppy love. At a sleepover when they were 13, I listened to their raucous laughter echoing from the stairs, filled with crude jokes. This was the Beavis and Butthead era, where their faces resembled haphazard collages of mismatched parts—like a patchwork quilt of youthful awkwardness. One friend’s mouth appeared as if a dentist had tossed in a random assortment of teeth with no care for alignment. They were so charmingly unattractive that I found myself thinking this might be a clever evolutionary phase: while many girls could technically become mothers at 13, gazing upon these patchy-faced boys with their crooked smiles might inspire a decision to wait a few years. These were the same boys I had once liked! And I found myself liking them all over again.
However, the blueprint of a crush differs from the intricate design of desire that comes later. Now the boys were athletic and toned, the kind that made my teenage heart race. They were the ones who pressed me against the gym wall at track meets, the ones whose bodies were a blend of youthful aspiration and raw energy. We shared fleeting moments in cramped beds, exploring a world that felt both intoxicating and surreal. Their faces were sculpted, their lips soft and inviting, their skin smooth and flawless. Every blooming tree seemed to emit the scent of desire, and I was caught in a whirlwind of sensations, trying to study for exams while lost in daydreams of passion.
This was the time; these were the boys. I learned about longing from them, and their youthful forms left a lasting imprint on my memory. But I didn’t get stuck in that past. I wasn’t the person stranded at the station of nostalgia while the rest of the world moved on. Instead, I grew, experiencing life and love as I aged, sleeping with 20-year-olds when I was 20 and starting a family with someone my age in my 30s. Yet, there remains a blurry intertwining of the present with those teenage years.
“Nostalgia isn’t the same as pedophilia,” I clarify during a chat with a friend in my kitchen, only to hear my daughter, who has been eavesdropping, chime in, “Isn’t pedophilia about a love of feet?”
It’s not love for feet or for boys. It is nostalgia. As I pull up to my son’s high school, I see those teenagers with their laid-back swagger, their stubbled jaws, and their T-shirts hanging loosely. They remind me of a version of myself that feels distant. I have become a person draped in the guise of motherhood, a bringer of gluten-free treats to bake sales. They see the plate of bacon I’m holding, but not the youthful vibrancy I once had, which is as it should be, even if it stirs a quiet longing within me.
And then there’s The Father. He exists in the baseball jersey of his own memories, perhaps still clad in tie-dye at a concert, remnants of that boyish charm lingering just beneath the surface. Oh, The Father! He doesn’t just navigate the mundane; he occasionally pushes through the fluff of everyday life and rekindles those hidden moments of youthful intimacy. Maybe not all the time, but when the stars align, it happens.
This reflection is adapted with permission from Soul Mate 101 and Other Essays on Love and Sex, edited by Jennifer Niesslein, published by Full Grown People on September 21, 2015.
In summary, nostalgia weaves through our lives, connecting past and present. As we navigate parenthood and the complexities of love, we carry echoes of our youthful selves, often finding humor and joy in the absurdities of growing up. Through it all, we learn that the journey is about embracing both the memories and the present.
Keyphrase: Nostalgia and Growing Up
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