(16, NY, USA) Anonymous - Growing Up

“You talk like a grown-up.”

“Oh yeah?” I smile at the girl I'm babysitting.

It was supposed to be my friend's job, but she couldn’t make it, so she asked me to cover. I don’t really know why I said yes. I'm not good with kids.

“Well, I sort of am a grown-up. I just don’t like saying that.”

“Why? Being a grown-up is cool. You can do what you want.”

“How old are you?”

The little girl proudly smiles and puts her hands on her hips. “Eight.”

It makes me stop. I slowly put down the disheveled Barbie doll I was holding and stare at her pigtails. Then at her purple pajamas that are covered in small glittery clouds.

She looks so small, tiny really.

Eight years old.

Did I really look that small when I was eight?

When I grabbed my brother’s hands and pulled him out of the room as soon as my parents would start arguing, shutting my bedroom door and putting on my old record player, turning the volume all the way up.

I felt so much older, so much bigger.

Did I really look that way when my dad shouted in the kitchen?

My back hitting the handle of the oven door as he tore up the drawings I’d just done because I had asked too many times for him to look at them.

How could he be so angry at someone so small?

The little girl tilts her head at me. “Are you okay?”

Even her voice is small, high-pitched and delicate.

I manage to smile at her, my chapped bottom lip catching slightly on my teeth. “Yeah, just thinking about when I was eight.”

“Was it fun?”

“Yeah.” I awkwardly clear my throat, and it hurts. “It was a lot of fun. I uh… don’t wish to grow up.”

“Why not?”

“Well, all years are great.”

She raises an eyebrow, something I could never do at that age. The expression looks so funny on her little face.

“All of them?”

“Every single one.”

She nods, “Well, that’s a relief.”

I laugh and pick up her Barbie again.

There’s a quiet moment between us as she resets the scene we’re about to play through, and I watch her look of concentration.

A sick feeling churns in my stomach for a moment as I imagine a look of fear on her face that was so common on mine.

Why was that okay on me when I’d probably do anything to keep her expressions only ever playful and fun?

Why did I never see myself as young in those memories before?

Why did I never see myself small, innocent?

Why wasn’t I allowed that?