Growing Up

Growing up an only child has some benefits. You don’t have to share being the biggie. But as an adult you wish there was family about. A brother or sister who knew your experience, your parents, your early life. Your friends become your family.

Please use the open space below to share your first 50 words on the topic “growing up.”


Author: Virginia DeBolt

Writer and teacher who writes blogs about web education, writing practice, and pop culture.

3 thoughts on “Growing Up”

  1. I dug out my school report cards to find the real me in the teachers’ comments. Growing up, for as long as I remember, I created a fantasy me so as to hide from myself.

  2. Growing up as a gawky, very tall, “Olive Oil” skinny, and freckled girl who had blonde eyelashes and brows – looked freakish to me when I looked in the mirror. Then there was the fact that my father had left our home when I was an infant the first time. My mother told me when he came to see me the first time at the hospital he commented, “all babies are ugly.” That combination of events impacted me permanently. Eventually, after I devoured magazines and watched trillions of old black and white movies with famous female lead actresses I learned to apply makeup deftly. People started to tell me that with my long legs I would make a great model. The older I became in my teens, the more attention I seemed to garner from construction site workers, etc. But still, to this day, I don’t ever leave my home without “putting my eyes on.” And it doesn’t take very much to make me feel insecure.

  3. Do tax prep work and engage sometimes in great life sharing. This was the case today. A fellow roughly 10 years younger than l came in. It just so happens that, like me, he spent his growing up years helping to run his parents’ grocery store in roughly the same area of our city. Both sets of parents operated with different but similar cooperatives (Centralla for them; IGA for us). As kids our after school hours on three afternoons were dedicated to folding sale flyers and two delivering them. Geography dictated a couple of differences, one of which was how our days began. He was expected to help “open the store” and pick up fresh-baked items from a local bakery for resale. In my household my mother was the early riser, making breakfast for my father who went downtown to the market in order to insure the best quality and diversity of produce. Mom then returned to bed for maybe an hour, rising for good in order to wake us children for school. After our departure she did the opening (which included putting orange crates outside to display fruits & vegetables my Father brought). It was amazing at how lively memories pulled out our growing-up enthusiasm. We talked for longer than it took to do the taxes he came to do. Sharing similar memories of a functional family weathering hard times is literally delightful. As the saying goes, “those times are gone forever.” But they’ll never be forgotten.

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