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me? Am I growing up, taking on the responsibilities that a wife and mother should?

Do I give up entirely and just let this world shape me? I had a convertible, a writing job, and I could do whatever I pleased. Now it's all gone.

Bring on the minivan, complete with "soccer mom" stickers. Take my son to daycare. Quit cooking. Buy processed food. Cut my childish long hair. Stop dreaming about where I'd like to get tattoos. Put away the books. Listen to pop. Watch too much TV. Is this growing up?

I'll be middle aged and overweight when I'm financially stable. Nothing will be new. There will be no words to write, no naivety or innocence. The jading is well underway. My creativity? Spent. Squelch and squander me. Exploit my desire to research, learn, read, solve. Figure out why profit margins are down rather than writing the words that save lives. We've lost all art and culture in the name of growing up.

I want to write for the girl that was me. That foolish 14-year-old freshman that hated her body. The 15-year-old who so desperately wanted a boyfriend. The 16-year-old who could never have the car or go anywhere (except to work for her parents). The 17-year-old that just wanted out. The 18-year-old, first out on her own. Eager to see what the world was all about.

I want to write for the 19-year-old that got married before she grew up, thinking she'd not be asked again. The 20-year-old that resented her husband. The 21-year-old that figured it out and fell in love with him again. The 22-year-old that finally found some stability, her place. The-23-year-old that finally learned to accept and respect herself. The 24-year-old that got pregnant and no longer belonged to herself. The 25-year-old that brought a new life into the world and sees through his eyes. The new mom who is re-asking, redefining everything.

I know you are out there. I wish I could write for you. I wish you could hear.

(Stepping down from my soapbox. Stepping away from the podium at open-mic. Sitting back at my little desk, in my little office with a little window that I don't look out of.)

I had better get back to work. Because I'm a grown up.

Learn more about this author, Terra L. Fletcher.
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