As the mother of four children I often marvel at how different they all are. From their very birth you can see unique personalities and characteristics. Who they are as children is pretty much going to be who they are as adults.

It's amazing how little we change as time goes by. Today I was looking through my old school reports (my older daughter wanted to see my HSC results) and came across a project about myself that we all had to do for school when I was 10. 

This was a piece I wrote called "The Quiet Me".

"When I am alone, I often read.  My favourite books are about old-fashioned life. I often lie on a bed and make up beautiful stories... I imagine I am someone and think about what would happen to me.

Then again, I often draw a lot. Usually I draw people. Often I paint. The paintings are mainly of things like vases and pots.

If I feel down in the dumps I often cry. Making things helps a lot. I usually get the idea from art books and then revise it in my own mind. Once I made a rag doll. Sometimes when I am thinking, the boys come along and my fantasy is ruined." 

This was all true of me at 10, and there's nothing (except perhaps the painting) that isn't true of me at 40. I read, I make up stories (although they're written at the computer now, not made up on the bed), I cry, I draw and craft and adapt other people's ideas. I've sewn dolls. They're fun.

Perhaps the only difference is that it's no longer my brothers who disturb me. Either way, the result - frustration - is the same whether it's kids or siblings.

Who am I? Exactly the same person I was as a child. Just with a few more wrinkles.