More handpicked essays just for you.
Parents influence child development
Symbolism as a literary tool essay
The role of parents in child development
Don’t take our word for it - see why 10 million students trust us with their essay needs.
Recommended: Parents influence child development
It's a Saturday morning,I lazily get up around eleven o’clock.I say “Good Morning” to my mom and start playing video games.In the back of my head, I’ve been thinking about going up to the attic because my mom always told me to not go up there.I wait until it’s night and slowly, quietly make my way to the hatch where I bring down stairs to the attic.I pull them down quietly, then walk up them.As I walk up them I think to myself “curiosity gets to he best of you”. I walk through the dark room.Luckily I brought my flashlight.I look around the room and just see a bunch of old of boxes, but I see something shiny in one of them.I look inside the box to see what looks like one of those lamp that a genie comes out of.I picking up, while checking
I walked into the house which was lit up like a Christmas tree, every light in every room ablaze. There had to be ten, maybe fifteen neighbors all crammed into the living room. Everything was sweaty, panicked and awful, and everyone looked pitiful and I was pathetic. The usual interrogation began. “How is this making you feel?”
The night before, I didn’t practice my English so I knew what to say. By now, I knew most of the words, so I would just let my heart guide me. Besides, my cramped old house, which is actually just a junky garage in an abandoned alley, is too small to let out my feelings. Once I got to school after a cold walk in the snow, I placed myself by her locker and waited. Fourteen minutes had gone by, and still no sign of Lily. I only had a minute to get to class now, so I hurriedly collected myself and ran to my locker. I was disappointed, knowing that without Lily here, it would be the hardest day of school. I opened my locker and to my surprise a note fell to the floor. I quickly picked it up and gazed at the neat handwriting that clearly spelled my name.
It is incredible to understand how the way someone was nurtured as a child could have such an effect on there adulthood. I personally believe that the events that occurred in my early childhood were stepping stones to defined me as the person I am today.
It is a Tuesday night in San Marcos Texas, it is a bit chilly outside as I walk up and down the square looking for a section of bars I can observe. As I walked East on Hopkins street I stumbled upon two bars, Harpers Brick Oven Sports Pub and The Porch. Both bars were packed with what looked like a mix of native San Marcos residents, and college students. These two bars shed light on what the square is; a welcoming place with a carefree atmosphere for all people who call San Marcos home to enjoy.
Growing up for me some would say it was rather difficult and in some ways I would agree. There have been a lot of rough times that I have been through. This has and will affect my life for the rest of my life. The leading up to adoption, adoption and after adoption are the reasons my life were difficult.
11:14 p.m.-I slowly ascend from my small wooden chair, and throw another blank sheet of paper on the already covered desk as I make my way to the door. Almost instantaneously I feel wiped of all energy and for a brief second that small bed, which I often complain of, looks homey and very welcoming. I shrug off the tiredness and sluggishly drag my feet behind me those few brief steps. Eyes blurry from weariness, I focus on a now bare area of my door which had previously been covered by a picture of something that was once funny or memorable, but now I can't seem to remember what it was. Either way, it's gone now and with pathetic intentions of finishing my homework I go to close the door. I take a peek down the hall just to assure myself one final time that there is nothing I would rather be doing and when there is nothing worth investigating, aside from a few laughs a couple rooms down, I continue to shut the door.
“We played The Soul Game today.” Her words hit me like a wrecking ball. “What’s the soul game?” her head was like a spinning chair, for she couldn’t keep her gaze. Her amber eyes darted all over the car, and sweat beaded from her brows. “I said no thank you, but she told me we wouldn’t be friends anymore if I didn’t!” a tear ran down her cheek. “WHAT. IS. THE. SOUL. GAME. TELL. ME. CHILD.” I turned off the car. “I cant tell you, the rules are so horrible! I cant!” she screamed. “Well will Violet tell me?” the look on Alyssa’s face was pure torture towards me. No one ever wants their child to appear so angry and frustrated. “NO!!” she squealed, scaring me, and making my blood run cold. “DON’T ASK HER. PLEASE. DON’T!” I opened my car door, confused and frightened. “PROMISE ME MOM!” I shut the door, heading towards her side where she was going ballistic. She was bawling, terrified. I opened her door and took her in my arms, and rocked her the way I used to when she was little, and had a bad dream. She fell asleep there, and I calmly took her to her room and laid her in her bed. Maybe sleep would make her
As I walk down the stairs, step by step, it appears to become darker and darker. Water drips on my head from the ceiling. I must be in the basement. I see a brass candleholder with a lit candle placed on it. I put my finger through the loop, lifting it off the dusty table to light my way.
The next morning, at nine o'clock precisely, I found myself on Ms. Donovan’s rickety front porch. My finger trembled as it pressed the discolored doorbell. My eyes shut instinctively out of the fear of what they might see when the door swung open. A rush of cold air surged past as Ms. Donovan answered the door. She simply smiled, urged a long to-do list into my hand, then shuffled past and went on her merry way.
I looked up at my dad and managed to utter, “Dad, I think that girl is on my soccer team” “They mix up names on the radio all the time Alz,” he assured, “it’s probably nothing, have a good day I love you.” The walk up to the front doors was a roller coaster of emotions (metaphor), a foggy and unsettling stroll. I wanted to get inside. I wanted to find my friends.
My back was still as stiff as a plank when we arrived at her house. The dreaded plane ride from Frisco, Texas to Grand Junction, Colorado was longer than I had expected it to be. I was bouncing off the walls to see my Memaw Glenda though. Apart from being the nicest, and most generous person ever, Memaw Glenda was my grandmother that I visited every summer break. She was a crucial influence in my childhood life and still is. I was content, and I knew that this visit would be spectacular with Glenda around. Memaw doesn’t live in an average, house-by-house neighborhood. She lives in the country area surrounded by mountains and forests; each house is separated by about a mile. As soon as I saw the mountains as tall as giants,
I wearily drag myself away from the silken violet comforter and slump out into the living room. The green and red print of our family’s southwestern style couch streaks boldly against the deep blues of the opposing sitting chairs, calling me to it. Of course I oblige the billowy haven, roughly plopping down and curling into the cushions, ignoring the faint smell of smoke that clings to the fabric. My focus fades in and out for a while, allowing my mind to relax and unwind from any treacherous dreams of the pervious night, until I hear the telltale creak of door hinges. My eyes flutter lightly open to see my Father dressed in smart brown slacks and a deep earthy t-shirt, his graying hair and beard neatly comber into order. He places his appointment book and hair products in a bag near the door signaling the rapid approaching time of departure. Soon he is parading out the door with ever-fading whispers of ‘I love you kid,’ and ‘be good.’
When I jumped, I knew this was stupid… When I was 7 years old, I was in my hometown, Costa Mesa, California. This was at night and we had a party at my grandparent’s house. My cousin finally came over, he was like a best friend to me. His name is Victor, he is short and has black hair. I was eating when he came up to me and said, “Do you want to play something?” I said, “After i’m done eating and then we’ll play.” So I was finishing my meal and told him what we were going to play. He didn’t know what to play, so we had to find something to play. It was really hard to find something to play.
I stumbled downstairs and dragged my feet along the dirty, cracked hallway floor. Another day in this pathetic excuse of a city. Yelling and loud thumps resonated through the building from the apartments above. I adjusted my winter coat and mentally prepared myself for the hellish crime ridden streets of Brooklyn. I tugged on the door handle again, the stupid thing was still stuck. Rubbing my hands together for alittle warmth I got a good grip on the handle and leaned back, putting all of my weight into one final heave. The rusty hinges snapped loose and the heavy door flung open, smashing me in the face. Blood poured from my face like a faulty water fountain.
It was a windy day in the fall, a Saturday to be exact, and the trees were bare and the ground was cold. There was a midnight frost that had melted away as the sunshine left the grass with the familiar dewey residue that would make the lower half of one’s canvas-dyed converse damp and slightly moist, but not enough to bother the sock. I trudged through this natural slop and wound my key lanyard nervously around my fingers, contemplating the idea of just throwing my home key into the thin strip of woods between my house and the next, knowing it would be hard to find them once I did. When I was about three meters from my door, I stopped. I did not want to talk to my family, nor did I want to step foot inside that house. I had already checked the