The longing for the childhood from a college student who grew up too fast

Story by Hannah VanOvermeiren

The room was an absolute mess. “It looks like a hurricane went through here,” my mom would say if she weren’t already asleep in bed. It was well after midnight and strewn across the floor were markers, crayons, board game pieces, colorful construction paper cut into bits and two young girls at the source of the chaos. My best friend, Karissa, and I were only 9 years old, and that meant staying up late being nuisances.

On this particular night, we were writing a play, and you can’t have an award-winning theatrical performance without good props. The stripped wrapping paper tubes were canes for old men, swords for brave knights, wands for the most powerful wizards, and most importantly, they made a really funny noise when you talked through them.

We recorded our play on my old laptop until our sides hurt from laughing too much. Then we turned our short-lived attention to the board games scattered around the room. First was Candyland, then Monopoly. We didn’t know how to play Monopoly, but the money was fun to collect and count at the end. None of the games made it back in the box when we were done. They were simply cast aside to make room for the next one.

When you have the vocabulary of the average 9-year-old, Scrabble can be quite difficult. Knowing almost nothing about creative wordplay, the game’s intriguing qualities fizzled out fast, and it was up to our imaginations to fix it. We got rid of the rules and made our own: whoever can make the dirtiest words wins. I moved quickly, putting every curse word I’d ever heard my parents say on the board. Giggling at our daring and risque new game, the board filled up easily. Of course, this was the perfect time for my mom to come in and tell us to go to bed.

The door opened in slow motion. Karissa and I were rummaging through the tiles when we heard the familiar creaking sound. We looked up and our eyes met. In an instant, I knew what needed to be done. I wasted no time hatching the most thought-out, most ingenious, most precise plan and executed it to perfection.

Before my mom could open the door all the way, I grabbed the corner of the Scrabble board and flipped it to the other side of the room. Tiles hit the ceiling and cascaded down onto the already disastrous floor. After Mom said her piece about being quiet and went back to bed, Karissa and I promptly erupted into laughter about our clever little plan.

I still smile thinking about that night and all the fun we had staying up until dawn. I still think about it while I sit in my apartment. I think about it while I absent-mindedly walk across the college campus. In fact, I can’t remember the last time I stayed up all night for reasons other than homework, let alone had a sleepover with a friend.

When I don’t have class, I’m at work. I’d like to take time off to focus on my schoolwork, but I wouldn’t be able to afford rent, food, car insurance or my other monthly bills. I have to apply for jobs after I graduate, even though starting my first big job seems almost impossible. No matter how appealing I make my resume or how much time I put into my cover letter, I just don’t have the experience they want.

Being the youngest of three, my family has a hard time with me growing up. My sisters are ten and fifteen years older than me, which creates a large disconnect. My 21st birthday is next week, but they still picture me as the 5-year-old girl playing dress up in the living room and wearing tutus to school.

I’ve always been an old soul — I thought I was excited to grow up, to experience new things. That is, until I found a box tucked away in the back of the closet with my name scrawled across the top in crayon.

Sitting cross-legged in my mom’s house with my childhood dog curled up on the rug beside me, I found books I wrote in the sixth grade. I found the drawings I made, dated back to 2005. I found a letter from my grandfather written to me on my seventh birthday, “We sure miss not seeing you on your birthday, big seven-year-old. You have a great day and grandpa will be thinking of you on your special day.”

I don’t live near my grandpa, but he’s always been one of the most important people in my life. The letter is starting to yellow and getting wrinkled from being in the box for so many years.

It was at this moment I started to weep. I didn’t want to get older anymore.

I wanted to dig out my old tutus and refuse to pay my bills. I wanted to find my coloring books with those scented markers, and I wanted to lay on the floor and color while watching “Space Jam” on VHS.

I looked at my dog still lying on the rug, her black coat shiny and big brown eyes looking back at me. We’ve had her for about twelve years. Her muzzle is going gray, and if she lays in one place for too long, she gets sore and limps for the rest of the day. She can’t play fetch for as long as she used to. I lean over and give her a hug. Her fur is soft and she breathes a deep sigh.

The memories I have stored in this box are a small fraction of my long life. I smiled and thought about who I used to be and who I’ve grown up to be. The road to where I am today feels long, but I know there’s more to come. We never really grow up, we only get older.

I stretched and sat up. My dog looked at me inquisitively while I started packing away the memories I uncovered. I started to put the box back in the closet to collect more dust, but not before adding one more thing: a note to myself for next time. On a small scrap of paper, only three words were needed — “Keep moving forward.”