Not ready to grow up, nor will I ever be. At eight months I was walking, and at two years I was ice-skating. At four years old I could tie my shoes in a split second and sprint as fast as my older brothers. Too fast, however, for my parents—my dream to become an adult came far too soon.
“She’s my baby,” my father tells people. For being the youngest of four, I’m used to being the baby. The one stuck in the back middle seat on family road trips, the one whose name appears last on family Christmas cards, and the one who tags along to my siblings’ countless sporting events. I never really minded being the youngest child, but I constantly desired to be like my older siblings. I wanted to go to school, I wanted to play sports, and I wanted to be able to drive. Despite what I didn’t realize, however, with all of those things came adulthood.
As a little girl I craved creativity. I loved to read, write, draw—you name it. I used to sit at my desk in my room on a Saturday morning for hours on end and finish a whole book series. I wrote short stories about how my day went in what I called my journal—not a diary. I was the master of drawing bubble letters and making 3D shapes. I was remarkably organized and rearranged my bed, desk, and dressers in my room every other week. I was independent and motivated to become an adult.
It’s funny how people want to be what they are not. As a child, I wanted to be an adult. But now that I am an adult, I miss being a child. There are numerous tasks to accomplish and not enough time in the day. I go from school to coaching volleyball to lacrosse practice to homework to sleep. I miss not having a care in the world. I miss reading and writing for pure entertainment rather than a school assignment. I miss my biggest problem being the fact that I wanted to grow up. But now I am grown up—eighteen years young—and miss the child I used to be.