By Mike Maddock I’ve discovered the worst part of aging is not that the hair that once blossomed on my head has abandoned that area for more unfortunate places. It’s not the back pain or the little ailments that seem to pop up in new places everyday. It’s not the fact the detailed memory of an error I made in a high school baseball game in 1987 floats clearly and regularly in my head, but, for the life of me, I can’t remember where in the world I left my keys this morning. The worst part of aging is not even that the Six Million Dollar Man is selling hearing aids, MacGyver looks like a grandfather, and early U2 is considered classic rock.

No, the worst part of getting older is that my kids are getting older, too.

My seven–year–old son is already exhibiting signs of his transition to manhood because he speaks in movie quotes, TV Land puts him into a hypnotic trance, and bodily functions are his main topic of conversation. My ten–year–old daughter knows stuff…too much stuff, and it takes a little more than tea parties with American Girl dolls to hold her attention these days. But the worst is my 12–year–old daughter who will be entering seventh grade this year. Fortunately, due to her school situation, she didn’t have to go to that Hell known as middle school until now.

My keys may be lost somewhere in the abyss of my mind, but I can remember those days all too well. I can recall the very first day sitting in the back of a dark, windowless room at Dent Middle School way before anyone ever considered renovating that place. I had just moved from Alabama, and it seemed I was the only one who didn’t know someone. I remember reassuring myself that I would survive this school, and that day would become one more pleasant memory. The problem is the pleasant memories always seem to fade, but the bad ones never die – like my error on that baseball field.

I’m not sure if it’s middle school or just that time in life that makes a person a little crazy. I abandoned a perfectly good bowl cut for a part down the middle and a mullet. I dressed myself in Member’s Only jackets and parachute pants. I thought painter’s caps were cool, sleeveless shirts were necessary, pencil fighting was perfectly good entertainment, and Men at Work were the next Beatles. I was not right in the head, but who is at that age?

God saw fit to turn us into raging balls of hormones while giving us bodies like those creepy air dancers outside cell phone stores and voices like the Charlie–in– the–Box from the Island of Misfit Toys. He gave us addictions to Clearasil, Rubik’s Cubes, Panama Jack T–shirts, and Polo cologne. And if that’s not enough, the teachers gave us math homework, and then showed us how to put things on bananas. Girls turned into women, and boys turned into idiots. It wasn’t pretty.

Middle school is a very confusing time, and now my oldest daughter gets to experience it. I wish I could hide her behind the innocence of an elementary school, but I guess she’ll have to put on her big–girl parachute pants and get through it like everyone else. I just hope I can.