Childhood Echoes

Sure, I'm a grown-ass woman, but the ethos of childhood are so deeply engrained, they continue to peck at me, like pigeons in the park.

Can you spot the First Holy Communicant in the bushes?

For instance, every time I throw away leftovers or fresh foods that have become inedible, I feel the tug of my mother's admonitions not to waste food. I hear the distant echoes of children starving in a foreign country calling out to me, shaming me. And although I realize my overeating and gaining another pound or two will surely not help those hungry youngsters, I still feel the twinge of guilt as I scrape aged foodstuffs into the garbage bin.

My parents weren't the only ones who shaped my childhood. There were also the flightless birds in their floor-length habits, their hair tucked neatly into wimples, with brows stern and rulers at the ready, waiting for the next transgression, which always came. 

I'm speaking, of course, of the the nuns. Masters of guilt instillation. God's warriors and every Catholic child's only hope of salvation. Always there to remind you that wearing a short skirt was a passport to hell. That God wouldn't cotton to boys with long hippie hair. And that playing keep-away on the playground was akin to dancing with the devil. 

My favorite was the nun who, when a boy was sitting on his hands one day, screamed at him to keep his hands on his desk. Clearly, nuns knew what was in the hearts and minds (and pants) of young boys.

I'm not really sure where I'm going with this, only as I near the brink of turning a milestone age, where the scales tip from "getting old" to "officially over the hill," I'm reflecting a lot on where I am, where I've been and what the foreseeable future holds. 

Will I become the alter cocker who begins every sentence with "when I was young..."? Will I try to keep up with the Gen XYZ'ers and pretend my body isn't slowly grinding to a halt like the Racing Horses ride at Cedar Point? Or will I simply stare the future in the eye and call out, "bring it on!"

And now I hear my Mom's favorite phrase, oft repeated and appropriate for any number of occasions.

"We'll see."