Ok, whew, got that out of the way. Is she looking? No? Ok… Good. I start this post with caution because this may be the day I piss her off with my version of childhood events, that maybe -just maybe- I’m not supposed to mention. Crap. I know she’s reading this. Well, if I’m going to hell anyway…
Maybe it’s a good thing? Not visiting the devil silly… But joyously delving into my dill pickle minus The Reuben kind-of-existence. Maybe it’s a bad idea… However, I’ve never been one to give two giraffes’ poo-loads about blemishes to my reputation. Doesn’t phase me. Either way, these experiences have helped shaped me to be who I am… And they’re a bit comical. Wait. I have a reputation? HA! Whatever… I’m always up for an opportunity to bestow my embarrassing tales unto you all. No shame in my jungle book.
Mom says I was a, smarter than average, kid with an uncanny ability to persuade others to jump off bridges. Like the time in sixth grade, when I rallied for the girl with allergies to keep eating peanuts on state testing day just to watch her sneeze uncontrollably. This entertained the school yard masses. Or when I was able to convince my sister to eat mud pies on several occasions. Really. I coerced her to put pies… made of mud, in her voice hole not just once, but on many… Many sunny days of summer. No matter how old I get, I still find cheer with that. Even when I believed She wouldn’t do it… ONE. LAST. TIME… somehow by the sacred sunflower garden, she would do it. Mind blown.
…So, I was rambunctious kid -that ONLY a mother could love- apparently my gentle caregiver of a mother at one time tied me to the bed to keep my hyper ass still. Right. Sound awful? Sound like I was abused? Nah. I just wouldn’t sit f***ing still. And she was just trying to catch some rays and relax. Scratch that crazy notion into oblivion. Hi, welcome to my parents hell. Make yourself at home. The thermostat is adjustable -with options of hot, hotter, and hottest. Oh, and we have scones. But, act like you’ve been infected with mad cow disease nowadays and they will medicate your over active youth in two shakes of a pogo stick. But, Back then? All it took was a rope and a mattress.
This wasn’t the first rendition of this tale though… Which made me ponder. Was I gridlocked twice? When my mom gave me this narrative account a second time, it came across quite differently. She could barely get through the fable without snorting laughter! She recounts that she had tied me up to keep me restrained from scratching myself. Chicken pox. They itch. I scratched. Most adults couldn’t refrain from these scribbling lacerations. Cut me some slack. So I’m hopping down the bunny trail of my childhood home hallway, arms and legs hog tied together. Nothing was going to keep me in that bed. Nothing. Mom was none the wiser. Until she saw my lasso loosening around my ankles as I bounced and skipped along. Urgently escaping the lingering doom of being stuck in the house all day over a couple of prickling imperfections. There were trees to climb. Boys to challenge -and WHOMP on. Yes, anything a boy could do, I can do better. Try me. Suckers.
Speaking of trees. This broadcast just in, one of my sisters -not the mud pie one- has just informed me that, I, was also tied to one of our tall, woodsy friends. Yes, a freaking tree. The tree that we had the most amazing treehouse fun in! Wait. The same tree I fell out of?
Upon hearing this breaking news, I’m starting to stumble upon answers as to why I tend to be so gregarious when people tell me no… or the fact that I feel confined by rules and regulations. Not all rules and regulations -by the way- are for every mould. And I, am my own mould. I live by my own passion. I know. I’m awesome. Write that down. Or maybe it’s as simple as a “go f*** yourself. Ill get what I want and persevere no matter what anyone says.” Even if it’s only when I want to substitute iceberg lettuce or spinach. Damn you waitress… I will use the force to get the shrubbery I desire! …And possibly why I’m very non-committal when it comes to boyfriends. Wow. What an uphill climb for Mr. Right. Sorry dude. Good luck on the terrain though! I’m rooting for you.
And so I rouse -and dance like a ballerina on train tracks. Thank you mom! You’re stories, your convivial punishments and quirky upbringing have built the perfect combination of giddiness, beauty and strength that only you could have provided me.
I love you MOM!
Happy Mother’s Day!