I had a discussion with a guy at work last night, who told me about his sister getting pregnant at the age of “nearly fourteen.” *sharp gasp*
I’m trying to remember what I was doing at nearly fourteen.
*That was the summer I saw Romeo and Juliet and I remember thinking what idiots lovers were.
*I was headed into the winter of Julius Caesar, and my starring role as Casca . . . I was just months away from meeting the love of my life, the Greek language (ha! for a second there you thought you’d missed something big, didn’t you!)
*I was totally obsessed with writing what I thought would be the next great young adult novel. (It wasn’t. It still isn’t. It’s mostly just 80 or 90 closely written blue lined pages, with another 20 or so with character and plot notes . . . it never really got anywhere because of how distinctly far-fetched it was.)
*I was starting “high-school,” which in homeschool world simply meant a lot more responsibility keeping track of my studies.
*I remember spending hours perched in a huge pine tree right out by the road – it was dangerous, and I recall nearly killing myself more than once, losing my grip because I was distracted by whatever I was reading.
I certainly wasn’t much into boys. I had a fleeting thought or two, of course, but mostly they were daydreams for the future. I don’t think I actually seriously considered the current potential, especially not for impregnation. Freaky.
As far as I recall, I’ve had relatively few boy-crazy moments in my life. Certainly not when I was fourteen, and still much more interested in beating boys than . . . well, than anything else.
Can you imagine if I’d have lost my childhood that early? Isn’t it so sad to think of someone missing out on all the innocence they still had in front of them because suddenly they had to think about bottles and diapers and raising someone else?
Girls: this is a serious post. Please refrain from any comments about my twelve (thirteen?) imaginary children. ;-) Besides, someone else is raising them.