Growing Up

Growing up. Its awful, and I hate it. Just the fact that I have to write a blog about growing up makes me mad. If I could, I would live the rest of my life at this stage of my life, the perfect mix of responsibility and fun. I don't know how its happened, how I got from playing with matchbox cars to driving real cars. I guess it started at the end of Lenape and will continue for years. In 5th grade I was faced with my grandpa having cancer, in 6th grade I faced such a bad end to my friendship with my best friend since pre-k that I didn't even go to school for a couple days. One of the highlights of growing up has been finding out who my true friends were, and surrounding myself around them; that all happened in middle school. Growing up resulted in me not realizing dreams, the first times that failure killed me. For the first time I needed to worry about things like girls, shaving, and about being responsible and trustworthy. For me, Middle School sucked until 8th grade, besides stupid drama I found myself stuck in . I don't know what else to say, growing up just sucks. One of the things that factors into it is the responsibility. Having a job, juggling APs, driving a car while mom stays home waiting to hear from me, doing clubs and activities and trying to work on an Eagle Scout Project while still trying to be a kid. Thinking about it, I'm far from being fully grown up, but I'm saddened thinking about the past. I hate when I refer to my childhood or starting a sentence by "When I was a kid..." Honestly, I miss the days of playing rescue heroes and matchbox with my dad on a snow bank over Christmas break. I miss show and tell, and Elmo and Barney. Not having a worry in the world that was more important than which Star Wars movie I was going to watch. But all things must come to an end, and life still is pretty good. I love coming across new milestones, the most recent of which being hopping in the car, rolling down the windows, blasting the radio and cruising by myself. In the end, maybe growing up isn't too bad.

Story to be told-Life's hardest lesson

It was a summer day, but i was in school, so i guess it was spring. I think it was 5th grade, but I can't be quite sure. Anyway, I don't remember much from the day specifically but now I wish I did-I wish i remember how it was to wake up, what the air felt like. There was a comoation in the family, but secrets were being kept from us, the kids. I guess it had been going on for some days, but this was the big one. Everybody was at my grandparent's house up the street-that is, my parents, my grandparents, my dad's sister and her husband, and my Uncle in Virginia was probably on the phone. Within moments my NY uncle was at our house, with the role of "babysitting." At the time, I had no idea that was happening up the street would become the hardest thing I'd have to deal with in my life to that point.Well, we hung out with our uncle, and played capture the flag. Later that day, when my parents got home, they had us come wit them into the living room. My dad, with tears in his eyes delievered some of the worst news I have ever heard-"Papa's sick." I understood what that mean, at least subconciosuly. My brother and sister passed it off, let it blow over their head. Not me though. I had never seen my dad like that. I broke down, I couldn't take it. The next day I saw Papa for the first time. I told my mom he didn't look sick. She told me to keep it down-the fact that he was ill was not yet public. On the school bus the next week, I told the news to my best friend, the first and only person I ever told. That summer, my grandparents celebrated their 50th anniversary. While my grandma talked about being best friends and praised us grandchildren for being their "cheering section," my grandpa was talking about struggle. He wept as he spoke. Half of those in attendence cried as we watched a video montage of thier 50 years, concluding with the video of my weak, bald grandfather cutting the cake on their actual anniversary. Well, life went on. Papa dealt with kemoterapy and we tried our best to keep my grandparents at their actual house, instead of moving to a new complex known as Woodland Pond. Our attempts ended in success, they stayed. In 6th grade, I asked Papa to come on a field trip to Mohank, as he had always been on field trips. He said no. "Papa can't do stuff like that anymore" my mom said. I was devistated. There were ups and downs, and then the spring of 7th grade, he passed out, not once, but multiple times. In the summer, he attempted to cut my hair-an extraordinary failure, and i was in tears-what had happened to papa? The true turning point came at my Virginia Uncle's general promotion ceremony, papa walked with a cain and was getting assistance from soldiers-and only just to walk. He fell that night at the hotel, into the bathroom. My older cousin and I started having sleepovers to help nana-papa couldn't even go to the bathroom at the end of that summer. At Ocean City in July, he was transported in a wheel chair, and began having trouble understanding. I remember one morning my cousins, siblings, and i ran into his bedroom and said good morning. He didn't say much. I hated it. Before long, he truly lost it. Hospilized in Westchester, he recognized my aunt as his grandma, and when my dad asked him where he was, he said "Kingston." Weeks later, he was in a hospice, continuing his decline. We went everynight, or at least tried to. We went there for Thanksgiving dinner, the last holiday with papa. When we said goodnight that night, he talked, told us he loved us. Into December, it looked like things were getting better. My dad was working on getting him to write, as he had lost all ability to communicate. Holiday decorations had been brought in, and we were making plans for the holiday and the upcoming Army-Navy game, certainly something to celebrate with papa. I didn't go one night, a Thursday, because I had Boy Scouts. Apparaintly papa had expressed joy when dad mentioned that papa's own world famous ice tea would be brought to him that next day. For some reason I still don't know, I cried that night. The next morning, my brother and I were awoken by my mother, and I freaked out because I was going to be late to school. But much like that day in 5th grade, she had us gather around and told us papa had passed a couple hours earlier. I was devistated. We went to see him in Newburgh, my dad telling us it looked "like he was sleeping," but it didn't. I couldn't comprehend, papa, the man who taught me about hearts and electricity, who was always encouraging me, who made me a Yankee fan, who took me on a school trip to Ellis Island, was simply a corpse in a bed. The following days were some of the roughest I have ever faced, but I got through it, like I knew he would've wanted. It brightened up my night tonight when Nana came up to me a student rec and told me how proud he would've been with me: "In Physics! He would've been ecstatic." Not a day goes by when I don't think of him, and the ways he touched me. I wish he could still be here today, and see me suceed. I wish he'd been at confirmation and 8th grade graduation, NHS inductions, and student rec. I wish he could've known how much he means to me. In the words of one of my favorite songs: "what I wouldn't give to ride around in that old truck with him." Well now as I become I driver, there is one car I have found comfort and meaning in, and thats his truck that was his trademark. He taught me so many things in my life, but wasn't even around for the greatest and hardest lesson-love prevails, and always live life to the fullest each day, because you never know when your time is coming.