# Remember being a "kid", and not a baby, nor an adult?



## fuzzybuddy (May 3, 2021)

squatting dog's post brought back a time in my life, that I had forgotten. And that was being a "kid". That is what we were-kids. We were instantly recognized as a "kid", as opposed to babies, and adults. When you saw another kid, there was an instant bond. We may not have liked one another but we were "kids", which was a shared experience. You saw another 8-12 year old, and it was a "kid", like you-not a baby or an adult-our own thing. Your size was a passport to kid-dom. You had an instant affinity to other kids.  Now, you don't walk into a room, and think I'm an adult. I guess the best way to say this is when you saw Timmy on "Lassie" (or Jeff, if you're) older, he was just like you a kid, not a baby, nor an adult. It was time in our life when we identified with each other as "kids".


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## SetWave (May 3, 2021)

You are . . . kidding . . . right? (sorry)

Yes, I agree. Kids share a distinct bond as a specific part of society living in a world far removed from adults


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## Murrmurr (May 3, 2021)

Take your kid to a playground and you'll see it in action; they'll approach any other kid without hesitation. They have no preferences or biases beyond height limits within a small range. Toddlers around the age of 3 won't typically approach babies. They might out of curiosity, but soon as they realize the baby doesn't exactly meet them eye-to-eye they'll walk away. Sometimes they'll sort of cringe first, like "mm, nope."

That's us when we're adults. We size people up and run them through our adult bias filters. If I see a guy wearing my team's ballcap, I want to say Hi. I'll approach him. But if he's obviously tweaking on meth, mm, nope.


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## Fyrefox (May 3, 2021)

I _liked_ being a kid, and didn't resent being one.  _Teenagers _were not quite kids but not quite grown-ups, either.  Teenagers did yucky stuff like kiss the opposite sex, which was _mush.  _A kid usually doesn't want to be a grown-up either, since they have to go to work and worry about grown-up stuff like bills and taxes.  Kids do none of that, and don't want to.

And you know what?  I had a substitute teacher in elementary school who always said that _kids _were baby goats, so we should just be called _children.  _You'd expect a grown-up to say something like that...


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## Aunt Marg (May 3, 2021)

I remember being a kid, Fuzzy, but how depressingly short-lived it was. By age 5, I had a baby sister age 2, and in the following years... 1968, 1971, and 1973, three more babies were welcomed into our home.

Of course I recognized the distinction between myself and my baby siblings, me being a kid, and them being babies/little ones, but my kid-hood years lasted for only about 5 years.

By the time I was age 10, my kid-hood years were gone, I was already developing into a woman, and as for my teen years, I felt more like an adult than a teenager, probably due to maturing so quickly and growing up in a home where I helped my mom with all aspects of homemaking including baby-care.

I grew up way to quickly, which is why I believe I have such an acute ability to recall so much of my early childhood years and past, because those years were so short-lived.


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## fuzzybuddy (May 4, 2021)

I remember having a black girl in my  5th grade class. She sat behind me. She didn't stay long maybe a couple of weeks, She was the only live black person I actually saw in the flesh, until I joined the US Navy. She was just another 'kid'. In fact I had forgotten she was black. The reason I remember her was she copied my arithmetic test. My math sucked, I came up with some odd answers.  So,. it wasn't hard to figure out she copied me. But it was the recognition that she was another 'kid'. Being a kid was some kind of instant bond with other kids.


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## jujube (May 4, 2021)

I just remember everybody constantly swiveling between "You're not old enough to do that" and "You're too old to be acting like that." 

Well, what AM I old enough to do or not too old to do????


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## Gary O' (May 15, 2021)

No longer fitting into the ol' peddle car pretty much did in kiddom for me

As far as kid recognition by parents, my fat little brother soaked it all in

Me? 
I was at gramma's house
She let me make my own pancakes 
(adult stuff)


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## Sassycakes (May 15, 2021)

I loved when I was a kid. I had a lot of friends and we had fun times together. i also had many cousins that lived near me and the best parents, I really miss those days.


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## Aunt Marg (May 15, 2021)

Gary O' said:


> No longer fitting into the ol' peddle car pretty much did in kiddom for me
> 
> As far as kid recognition by parents, my fat little brother soaked it all in
> 
> ...


Don't despair, Gary-O.


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## Gary O' (May 15, 2021)

I do have many kid hood memories
(stolen from wunna my threads)

Its a long read;

*Recollections*

this became rather lengthy....

Ever so often, I'd drive up to the ol' place for, well, old time's sake.
I always enjoyed the rush of memories, driving the old lane, and around the corner, up the hill onto the flat where most the kid population was, and where gramma's house, my 2nd home, crowned the hill.
Our place and gramma's place was one property, adjoined by five or so acres of strawberry patch, making the patch a short cut between houses.

Not long ago I hired a new engineer, he was a whip.
Ate up everything I could hand him.
Became our I.T.
Made tedious, complex projects his fun little game.
Interfaced quite well with our clients.
We became friends, even though he was in his late 20's, and I in my mid 50's.
Come to find out, his dad lived at and owned the property out there in the hills of Scappoose.
I had to make the trip one more time.

Our little converted broom factory house was ready for razing. The doors were off, the garage my dad and grandpa built (with a hand saw and hammer) were gone.
We stopped. I boosted myself thru the doorless, and stepless porch entry, the closed in porch was our laundry room.
Wringer washer, clothes line, wicker baskets, sweet smells of Fels-Naptha, my place to take off my day's clothes and grab the tub off the wall.
Rooms, once huge, were now so tiny.

The kitchen, remodeled with the rest of the house, still had the red fire alarm above the sink.
Dad would proudly demonstrate to friends how loud it was, putting a glass of hot water up near it.
The wood cook stove was gone, but the pipe coming outta the ceiling, with the ornate metal ring, bore testament of many a meal.
Meals I learned to prepare, taking a few times to learn how to not break an egg yolk, how to get pancakes to turn out like mom's and gramma's, snacks dad showed how he ate when young, tater slices scorched on the cook top, then lightly salted. Tasted horrible, but really good, cookin' with Dad, good.
The table was gone of course. The curvy steel legged one that replaced the solid wood one, well not so solid, as we lost a meal or two due to the one wobbly leg. But that steel one with the gray Formica (?) top was up town.
There I'd sit, waiting out the meal, spreadin' my peas around to make it look like I ate some.
'If you don't at least take a bite of your peas you won't get any cake!'
Eventually, I'd be sittin' at the table alone, studying the gray swirly pattern of the table top, malnourished head propped up on my arm.
Dad, Mom, and sis would be in the living room watchin' Howdy Doody on the Hoffman, or something just as wonderful.
Eventually, I ate cake...then did the dishes.

One Sunday morning I sat at an empty table, but for a glass of milk and the One-a-Day pill bottle. Dad and Mom were exasperated... 'Your throat is this big, the pill is this big'..minutes-hours passed, shadows on the table shortened...'OK, just drink your milk'
I drained the glass between pursed lips.
The little brown pill remained at the bottom.
Nice try, parents from satan.

We had a lot of beans, navy, pinto, brown.
Beans on bread was quite regular. Got to like'n it..not much choice really.
Had chocolate cake with white icing for dessert. No dessert plates. Cake just plopped on the bean juice.
To this day, I still have a craving for cake soaked in bean juice.

The house was designed so's I could ride my trike around and around, kitchen, living, bed, bath, bed rooms.
They were my Daytona, straight away was the bed, bath and bed rooms.
We had large windows in the front corners of the house from the remodel, 'so we can look out, for godsake'.
Now we could watch log trucks barrelin' down Pisgah Home Rd, and my sis and I could have a bird's eye vantage from the kitchen when Dad backed the Bel Air outta the garage over three of the four kittens puss had had weeks earlier under the porch.
Took my sis quite awhile to get over that, as she'd just named 'em a few hours earlier. I was just enamored with the scene; romp-play-mew-look up-smat.
Dad didn't know until he got home.
Actually, it saved him an' I a trip, as when he thought we had too many cats around, we'd toss a bunch into a gunny sack and once down the road, hurl 'em out the window of our speeding chevy.
I haven't maintained the sack-o-cats legacy, but there have been times....

The living room still had the oil stove that warmed us...in the living room.
A flash of memory recalled the two end tables and lamps, aerodynamic, tables sharp, cutcha, lamps with flying saucer shapes, one had butterfly like images formed into its material, and when lit, enhanced their appearance.
A sectional couch, we were up town.
Before the sectional, we had one that kinda placed you in the middle, no matter where you started. It was my favorite, as sis and I spent many a day on it when sick.
Mom would lay out the sheets and blankets, administering doses of tea, crackers, and toast, peaches if we felt up to it.
Waste basket stationed at the tail end of that couch, since we were in such a weakened state we could never make it to the bathroom.
Mom loved it, our own personal Mother Teresa.
Yeah, we milked it for days...school work piling up.
Recovery would finally occur once bed sores emerged.
When we were actually sick, Doctor Day would visit. Fascinating, black bag, weird tools, gauzes, pill bottles, the smell of disinfectant and tobacco. Then the shot.
It was all almost worth it.

Asian flu was a bit serious, but chicken pox was horrific for me.
It was Christmas, fever, pox forming.
Presents! Guns! Six shooters!...only there was this pock right on my trigger finger. It was like free ham for a practicing orthodox Jew.


Dad, always the entrepreneur, would use the living room as the media center, inviting salesmen with projectors and actual reel to reel set ups, showing us how to become a thousandaire overnight.
Nutri-bio was one, to take the place of one-a-days I guess.
The Chinchilla movie was fascinating, and we even took a trip to a guy's garage to see how they were raised. Turns out they need an even controlled temp to get a good coat, and actually keep 'em alive.
The Geiger counter became something to show company, and become an antique.
Dad and Mom's bedroom held few memories for me except for the time Mom found a nest of baby mice in the bottom dresser drawer...and a hammer.
There was that other brief time, but seems we were all pretty shocked.
My bedroom was actually our bedroom, sis and me.
After the remodel, we got twin beds, new ones.
Recall my first migraine in my new bed, pressing my head into the pillow. Teddy no consolation, but then I didn't really give it an honest try to fix his dented plastic nose either.
Dad was the bedtime story teller, Goldie/bears, red/the wolf, pigs/wolf..pretty standard stuff....but did the job.
Had a framed picture of a collie baying over a lamb in a snow storm hanging over my bed. It hangs over my light stand table today, found in some of my mother's stuff.

The yard was not spectacular, but when sequestered from the woods, was plenty for me. I'd play in the dirt. Mom, in her no-remote-thought-of-divorce-happiest-I'll-ever-be-but-don't-know-it days, would be cleaning the house, wiping something on the windows that would become a swirly fog, then wiping that off. Cleaning the floor was sweep, mop, wax. Linoleum was the rage.
Lunch would be a great, but simple sandwich, with lettuce, and soup.

The icebox held short stemmed dessert glasses of homemade chocolate pudding, each centered with a half maraschino cherry. For the longest time I thought cherries came that way straight from the tree.
Cross over the Bridge, or Sunny Side of the Street played on the radio. Then it was a Paul Harvey segment.



Nobody close died, there were no wars I was aware of, and folks were generally at ease during that eight year era of fond memories, just fragrant recollections.


This aging cynic, years of crust giving way to a soft spot, down deep, had a hard moment of holding back visual emotion, as we drove away from the last tangible vision ever to be seen of the house of a sweet early life.


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## Gary O' (May 15, 2021)

Aunt Marg said:


> Don't despair, Gary-O.


Heh heh

Good times.....good times


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## Aunt Marg (May 15, 2021)

Gary O' said:


> Heh heh
> 
> Good times.....good times
> View attachment 165191


I'd be the biggest thorn in your backside... _come on Gary-O, you've had the wheel long enough, it's my turn now!_ LOL!


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## Gary O' (May 15, 2021)

Aunt Marg said:


> I'd be the biggest thorn in your backside... _come on Gary-O, you've had the wheel long enough, it's my turn now!_ LOL!



Heh...My nemesis was my cousin

Little turd had the tractor


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