I hail from Staten Island, New York, a place I often refer to as the borough that time forgot—and for good reason. After spending four years away, I returned to find that not much had changed. I never anticipated living in my hometown again, let alone raising my son in the very same neighborhood where I grew up. It’s not that my hometown is a bad place; rather, I felt I’d outgrown it and couldn’t envision it as a suitable backdrop for my child’s upbringing.
But life has a way of bringing us back to our roots. Now, I’m back in familiar territory, and there’s a comforting nostalgia in witnessing how little has transformed. The bakery I frequented after school still stands, the barbershop remains on the corner, and the hardware store is just as I remember.
While some businesses have shifted over the years, I still recall what once occupied those spaces. The Sri Lankan restaurant that was once a dry cleaner where my friend’s mother worked, the laundromat that used to be a health food store—I have fond memories of those places. The hair salon I visited as a child recently closed, but my sentiments remain.
The joy of sharing these cherished spots with my son is immeasurable. Many of the places I take him to mirror my own childhood favorites. It’s magical to see him enjoy them as much as I did. Our neighborhood has a playground and a library within walking distance, so we don’t need to venture far for fun.
I remember spending countless hours at our local library, immersing myself in books and attending special events. I was an avid reader back then, always leaving with a stack of Baby-Sitters Club books. My son is still young and not quite as enthusiastic about reading, but he adores the library nonetheless. He eagerly asks to go at least twice a week to enjoy their play area—a welcome improvement since my childhood. Sometimes, he picks out a book while I settle into a beanbag chair, surrounded by the same book racks that sparked my imagination years ago.
He has a boundless love for the outdoors and requests trips to the playground nearly every day. The playground we visit most frequently is the same one I enjoyed with my father. When we feel adventurous, we take the bus to another park where I spent many memorable hours, and here’s the comforting part: neither park seems to have changed much in over two decades.
I’m convinced the giant slide at the faraway playground is the same one where I spent hours as a child. My son has just gained the courage to slide down by himself, and I stand at the bottom as my mother once did. We swing together, with him perched on my lap, pumping our legs back and forth. “Higher, Mommy! Let’s go fast!” he squeals, gripping the chains tightly.
After our play sessions, we take a leisurely stroll by the lake, tossing Cheerios to the geese and ducks, a highlight of our outings. In the summer, he splashes around in the sprinkler, in the very spot where I once slipped and scraped my knees.
Among all our destinations, the Children’s Museum holds a special place in our hearts. I’m not exaggerating when I say it’s nearly unchanged from my childhood. Some exhibits have evolved, but the one my son loves the most—just as I did—is the “Block Harbor.” This room is filled with blocks, a cozy reading nook, and the bow of a giant ship.
Walking in with him felt like being whisked back in time. The colors, the ship, even the familiar scents brought waves of nostalgia. It was my favorite spot in the museum, and now it’s where my son and I spend most of our time. I’ve had to carry him out crying when it’s time to close. Moments like these reveal just how much he is like me.
Sharing these experiences with him and seeing the places that are etched in my memory through his eyes is a treasure. They are old to me but entirely new to him. He doesn’t realize these are the same places I frequented as a kid. I hope he cherishes these memories and, someday, if these places still exist when he becomes a father, he will take his children there, sharing his own stories just like I do.
Even if my hometown isn’t where I envisioned my life would take me, I’m grateful to share these significant memories and beloved spots with my son.
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In summary, returning to my hometown to raise my son has been a unique and fulfilling experience. The familiar places of my childhood have transformed into a backdrop for his adventures, allowing me to relive my memories through his eyes.