I have such fond childhood memories. I often reflect on my younger years and feel like the luckiest little girl in the world because my parents did everything in their power to make it great for me. And it was great. I remember pretending to be pioneers with my sister. We would journey through the cul-de-sac in our Radio Flyer covered wagon and cross through the Pacific Northwest of our backyard. We hunted for food and sloshed our oxen through rivers; if we had money we would take a ferry, but if not, we’d risk it. We narrowly escaped death by dysentery, exhaustion, typhoid, cholera, or snake bite.
It makes me sad when I see my niece grow up so quickly. Instead of pretending to be Annie Oakley, she becomes a teen sensation pop star. The living room sofa becomes her stage and the television set is her audience. I want so badly to protect her youth. I find myself sympathizing with the Duggar family, and the idea of sheltering Mikayla through a life of living in a protective bubble is so appealing. If only it weren’t so creepy.
I’ve tried desperately to hold on to my own youth throughout my adolescences and young adulthood. And I’ve been fairly successful. But today I was given an entirely new appreciation for that.
The first morning, we split into smaller groups and then set off to peruse the community. We would spend the morning interacting with the locals. Our first stop was a family whose small business was at risk of closing. To supplement their income they (along with the majority of their neighbors) work for a nearby sweatshop. Loads of jeans are delivered to their homes each day and their job is to cut loose threads from the seams. They are compensated one dollar for each set of 100 pants they complete. On a good day, they can complete fifty. If the children are old enough and can be trusted (families are fined 10 dollars for each pair they lose and 5 dollars for any holes they may cause), they help in the work. 
Later that day, children of all ages lined up outside the community center waiting for a hair washing. My teammates and I scrubbed their scalps, trying to rid them of lice. A few of us braided the little girl’s hair when they were finished. They were elated when they saw their smiling reflections in the mirror. I remember feeling like a movie star when my mom French braided my own hair. We spent the remainder of the afternoon playing games, singing songs, and drawing pictures. These children were so full of innocence and joy, yet they had so little.
It got me thinking again about my own childhood again and how undeserving I am of the upbringing I had. I often struggle with these thoughts. Why was I born into a privileged family? I will never know what it means to care for a younger sibling at the age of 7, I will never know what it means to have the pressure of providing for my family. I will never know what it means to live in fear of disease as a child. I will never know what it means to wake up hungry.
