My Twelve-Year-Old Self

My eldest granddaughter recently turned twelve. 

She was so happy to speak with me on ‘her’ day, the excitement describing and showing me her birthday gifts was infectious. This gorgeous dirty-blonde (her words) haired beauty on the brink of teenage years and definitely full of sass.

It got me thinking about myself at that age and let me tell you my twelve-year-old self was not nearly as wholesome. 

When my birthday came round, my dad would give me five bucks and say, “go get yourself something”.
I was left to my own devices a lot of the time.  He out drinking, me roaming the streets or terrifying myself by concocting murderous intent from some innocuous outside sound. 

I was a tough cookie.  I think now, that my bravado masked the lonely scared girl hidden under my five-foot nothing frame.  It wasn’t unusual to see me scrapping on the corner after school, fighting to prove who knows what, my mind has forgotten that bit of information.  But I remember my meanness to my dearest friend, she younger than me, I’m blessed that our friendship has stood the test of time. 

Not that long ago, I confessed another shameful act, I was a shop lifting fiend.  Not something I am proud of and by gosh, I’d kill (not literally) my grandkids if they ever, ever stole.  Clothes were important to young girls and a visit to Woolworths (in those days you could by everything there) saw me depart the store a little bit chubbier than I went in.  There were two other clothing stores I frequented, oh the stories I concocted to explain away a brand-new school uniform.  My dad was either gullible or turned a blind eye.  Or perhaps he was just engrossed in his own stuff and didn’t really give a toss. 

Don’t get me wrong, he loved me and I loved him. In some respects, we were a team.  He’s the one that taught me to cook, how to do hospital corners, the housework.  Small things remind me of him, getting into freshly washed, dried in the sunshine, sheets.  I don’t think we washed ours too often.  Home-made gravy.  If I was suffering any malady and was home from school, he’d make me gravy and serve it with thick white bread and slatherings of butter.  Those who know me well will attest to my love of butter, real butter not the whipped-up margarine type.  Baked beans on toast.  And porridge, oh he could whip up the best tasting porridge with brown sugar and butter (of course).

My imagination had me turning our living room into a restaurant, complete with signage adorning the door and menus on the table.  Dad would return home unaware that he had a part to play. The patron.  Pretty sure baked beans were the specially of the house.  I still love them too.

Oh the stories I could tell. . . 

I had two kind-hearted aunties who weren’t related but in those days everyone was your auntie or uncle. Not like today where it’s first name basis for just about everyone.   These women shared their love with me.  One always there when a school event was on, helping me feel less different to my class mates.  Heaven only knows where I would be now, I am so thankful that they loved me, that they were there if ever I needed them. 

But you know what? I turned out ok, I lived to tell the tale.  I’m a better person for the insights this life of mine has bought me.  It’s interesting how we view people, how we make judgement, where we perceive something to be a certain way and yet, in reality it is nothing like that perception. 

Everyone has a story to tell.  This is a little bit of mine.  More than I intended to share but there you go.  Make of it what you like and please don’t judge me or anyone else, nobody knows what it’s like to walk in another’s shoes.  And above all please be kind to yourself.