I hail from Staten Island, New York, a place I often describe as the borough that time forgot. Having left for four years, I was struck by how little had changed upon my return. Originally, I never envisioned myself raising my son in the same neighborhood where I grew up. My childhood home wasn’t a bad place, but I felt I had outgrown it completely.
Yet, here I am, back in my familiar surroundings. There’s a certain comfort in the continuity of it all. The bakery I frequented after school is still operating, the barbershop remains on the corner, and the hardware store looks remarkably similar to how I remember it. Although some businesses have transitioned, the memories linger. I recall the Sri Lankan restaurant that once was a dry cleaner where my friend’s mother worked and the laundromat that used to be a health food store offering my favorite sparkling soda.
Taking my son to these familiar spots has been a magical experience for me. Many of the places I cherished as a child are still intact, and it’s heartwarming to see him enjoy them as much as I once did. Our neighborhood has a playground and a library within walking distance, so there’s no need to venture far for fun.
I spent countless hours at the library, engrossed in books and attending events. As a child, I was an avid reader, always leaving with a stack of the latest titles. While my son, Sam, isn’t quite as passionate about reading yet, he still adores our library visits, often asking to go at least twice a week. The play area, a recent addition since my childhood, has become a favorite spot for him. I find myself reminiscing while we relax in the same beanbag chairs I loved, surrounded by familiar shelves.
Sam also loves being outdoors and requests trips to the playground almost daily. The very playground I visited with my father still stands, unchanged over the decades. On adventurous days, we take the bus to another park I frequented, and the nostalgia is overwhelming; the giant slide is still there, just as I remember. Now, I watch Sam conquer it with the same excitement I once had.
After our play sessions, we stroll by the lake, feeding the ducks Cheerios—a delightful tradition. In summer, he enjoys playing in the sprinkler, in the same spot where I have memories of slipping and scraping my knees.
Of all our outings, the Children’s Museum remains our favorite. Remarkably, it feels almost identical to how I remember it. Although some aspects have changed, the room known as “Block Harbor”—filled with blocks and a reading nook—has remained a highlight for both of us. Walking into that room with Sam transported me back in time; the colors, the ship, even the scent felt familiar. The nostalgia washed over me as we played, reminding me of my own childhood joy.
Sharing these experiences with Sam has been incredibly special. While some might argue he doesn’t resemble me, moments like these reinforce our connection. I cherish witnessing how he perceives these cherished places and hope that one day, he will return with his children, sharing stories of his own adventures, just as I do now.
Although raising my son in my hometown wasn’t part of my original plans, I am grateful for the opportunity to share these meaningful memories and places with him. It’s a journey that has brought us closer and allowed me to relive my childhood through his eyes.
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Summary:
Returning to my hometown to raise my son has been a rewarding experience. The familiar places from my childhood have remained largely unchanged, allowing me to share cherished memories with him. Our visits to the library, playground, and Children’s Museum evoke nostalgia while we create new bonds. Despite not initially envisioning this path, I am grateful for the opportunity to relive my past through my son’s eyes.
Keyphrase: Raising my child in my hometown
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