Column: Age 11 leaves kids stuck in between

Eleven is a tricky age.

You’re dying to be older in some ways but are content being considered a little kid in others. Did I want to make money babysitting? Yes. Was I allowed to stay home alone? No. Did I want to stay home alone? No. Did I have crushes on boys? You betcha—boy crazy Stacy over here. Did I really want a boyfriend? Dear God, no. That would’ve been terrifying. Did I want to see R-rated movies? Yes. Did my friends and I watch them when we weren’t supposed to? Of course. Did I go home after watching those movies and dress up my American Girl dolls? Nightly.

Eleven is a tricky age. Your body starts to do things without notifying your mind. When I was eleven, I was having a lovely afternoon at my friend Anne Marie’s house. We were plotting our next business: selling friendship bracelets. If that didn’t work, perhaps we’d attempt a babysitter’s club for the third time. After a trip to the bathroom, all entrepreneurial efforts were cut short: I got my period. I bolted out of Anne Marie’s house and sprinted the two blocks back to mine. Later, through a series of hiccup crying, I came to find out I did not get my period that day.

Eleven is a tricky age. The summer before going into sixth grade, my dad took me and my sisters on a cruise. My sisters, ages 13 and 15, couldn’t wait to get their hair braided in the Bahamas. I believe there was an episode of “90210” where Kelly had braids from a beach vacation and it was all the rage. Therefore, I needed my hair braided too. Braids complete, I couldn’t wait to show off my hair at school once we got back home. Sixth grade was going to be my year. I was ready to grow up, walk the halls of junior high, turn twelve and become a real preteen. On the last day of our week-long cruise, I asked my dad if I could borrow $10.

“Why do you need $10?” he asked.

“I need to buy a toothbrush,” I said.

“What happened to yours?”

“I forgot it at home,” I replied.

“At home? You haven’t brushed your teeth in five days?”

“Nope.”

With a confused and slightly disgusted look on his face, my dad chuckled and gave me 10 bucks.

“How old are you again?” he asked.

“Dad, I’m eleven!” I yelled.

Eleven is a tricky age.

Bridget McGuire is a Chicago-based storyteller, stand-up comedian and is a co-producer of “All That Good Stuff,” a traveling comedy show that started on the South Side of Chicago. Follow her on Instagram at @bmcguire82.