Childhood lost

There is a conspiracy going on here. Someone is trying to kill my childhood, little by little.

I still see a kid when I look in the mirror (if the lighting is good, I have makeup on, and maybe some rose-colored glasses as well) but it seems to be more and more of a challenge every day. A force greater than I just seems bound and determined to ruin it.

In 2009, Michael Jackson died suddenly. Sure, this was 2 and a half years ago now, but I really think it was the beginning of the end for me. It was a shocking event, and while you'd hardly call me an MJ fanatic, my teen years were accompanied by his music like a soundtrack. So when that happened, I was upset and felt like a small part of my growing up years was now dead. But on the bright side, at least I was still in my thirties.

THEN, I turned 40. Sure, that was a year and a half ago, but I'm still getting over it. Most days I like to pretend it didn't actually happen. In fact, maybe it didn't. You know, when my parents tell me that I was born on October 3, 1970, I'm really just taking their word for it. It was the age of hippies and self-searching, and I think it's safe to say things were hazy and my birth year could have easily gotten confused. That should buy me at least 5 or so years.

Seriously, when you're like 21 or 25, you know you're supposed to turn 40 sometime in the distant future, barring any terrible accidents or illnesses, but it just seems so far AWAY. Like it's supposed to happen but it's not really going to. So, when all of a sudden you find yourself holding on to the edge of your 30s for dear life, you need to resign yourself to the fact that it's going to happen no matter how inconceivable it may seem. This is just one of many things people older than you don't tell you.

Ok. So, while I'm apparently still reeling from that birthday, Whitney Houston goes and drowns in a bathtub while under the influence and now Davy Jones kicks it! What the hell is going on? Someone is happily chipping away at my solid childhood and I have nothing to say about it and no control over it. Whitney Houston was bad enough, but Davy Jones and the Monkees were one of my first musical memories as a child where I felt like a "fan." I will proudly tell anyone about the Easter that my brother and I came down to our baskets and the brand-new Monkees greatest hits album that was propped up against them. We LOVED that album and nearly wore it out. I used to watch repeats of the Monkees show as a child in the afternoons after school. The ridiculous physical comedy was hilarious to me as a little kid, and most likely set the stage for my imminent Beatles obsession (which is ironic considering the Beatles' strong influence on the Monkees). And of course, like all other kids my age, I watched Marcia Brady come face-to-face with her teen crush, Davy Jones himself. Score one for the everyday girl (at least it seemed to us).

And somewhere in the middle, just a day or two before Davy Jones' death, was the quiet and media circus-free passing of Jan Berenstain, one half of the husband-and-wife team who authored the Berenstain Bears book series. I'd like to find just one person for whom just hearing the word "Berenstain" doesn't conjure up a picture in his or her mind of the lovable bear family, remembers reading the books as a kid and probably even has a book or two on their child's bookshelf right now.

Now, I'm a sentimental person. Every time I'm in the area, I pass by my old house in Moorestown and wish I could go inside one more time and look around. Even more, while we're wishing for stuff, I wish my parents had never sold it and I could come back on a regular basis, this time with my kids so that they could enjoy it too. I like looking at old photos, watching old home movies and reminiscing about fun times past with friends and family. Somehow, telling the same story over and over and over doesn't get stale to me, they just get funnier and more dear.

Not everyone is like that, though, I know. I enjoy looking back in time and reliving the old memories. Some people, like my husband, will not willingly sit down to look at old photos, considers old home movies a punishment, and refuses to join facebook to reconnect with old classmates and maybe even his best friend from when he was 6 years old. :) And some people just don't care when a celebrity, even one whom we feel we "know," suddenly dies. To them, it's just another person, just another death.

People die every day, some people we do know and plenty we don't, but when those names are somehow tied to your childhood and growing-up years, at least to me, it's like a little piece of you is forced to grow up a little more as well. And when you are not just young at heart but even downright immature, like me, it can be even harder to swallow.

So, short of freezing time indefinitely (which to my knowledge is not possible - although it may be worth looking into during my limited spare time), the options for preventing this kind of passing appear slim to none. While these kind of childhood memories will most likely continue to deepen their rosy hue as time slips past, perhaps the canned-and-preserved variety are not the only ones that can be sweet. While I may be mourning the passing of days gone by, we are constantly making new ones in the every day, and perhaps I should be focusing on new and unique experiences to help usher in the new as well. I've long been searching for a new outlet and maybe the time is now, so that when the solid foundation of my childhood memories takes yet another ding, it won't hurt quite so much. I'm thinking that there's still so much more to build.