I imagine all of us have mixed memories of our growing up years. Places we've lived, schools we attended, people we had as friends that, until just now, we hadn't thought about in decades and others, quite frankly, whom we had striven to forget and had until just now (sorry).
From what I remember of their formative years watching our two children grow into adults, I wouldn't want to be a kid again. And from what I can very nearly can remember of my own childhood, I wouldn't want to do it even the first time, though some things are decided beyond the bounds of this page, I suppose.
It was earlier this fall when the heartaches of being a teen, or this time, a pre-teen were again a headline concern when a twelve year old child, because that's what twelve year old human beings are, children, took her own life after what was called relentless bullying.
Since it's never eaten as hot as it's served, you won't be surprised to know, as I know I wasn't, that no charges were ever filed against any of the designated adults in this tragedy as had been speculated, but a wire item crossed my path the other day that made me very sad, in terms of inwhom else we've decided to not apply some Old Testament treatment.
Old Testament is deliberate in that I was brought up in a religion that said you should hate the sin not the sinner (unless you're Joan of Arc, or Martin Luther, or Galileo) and my grown-old (not grown-up) sensibilities support the manner in which this matter is being handled.
But then I think about Rebecca Sedgwick's parents and the holiday season and the hole in their hearts that will never heal and I shake my head in dismay over how difficult we've made it for our children to be children. They're a short time here and a long time gone, and when gone, they are gone forever.