(no subject)
I have never broken any bones or gotten in any serious accidents. My one and only claim to emergency room fame came when I was three. I was chillin’ at a playground near my house, like you do. One particular day, I was running. I don’t remember whether I was running away from someone or trying to tag a friend, all that I know is that I was trucking. Being the shrewd little girl that I was, I took a tricky route through the big kid swing area. I booked it, fixing my eyes on the swings to my left. I was absolutely convinced that if I didn’t pay close attention, some strong, hulking older kid would come swinging violently towards me and kick me in the face. So I’m running, watching the swings, and the next thing I know, some instinct forces me to turn my head back to the middle to check where I’m going. And I run into a bolt. Not just any puny little bolt, no, a humongous industrial sized bolt. I smacked into a huge bolt. After that, I don’t remember what happened. I guess I got a pretty big hole in my forehead, which sounds pretty cool. Bloody, but definitely cool. My babysitter, Lori, bought me some ice cream to keep me from crying and she rushed me to my dad’s office, which was nearby. Apparently, I showed up with a very bloody forehead and a whole lot of melty ice cream down my arm. My dad took me to get stitches, and I guess I wasn’t freaked out at all. I still have the scar.
Some children have a blanket that they sleep with and it comforts them. Other kids suck on their thumb, or use a pacifier. I had the kitchen. Yes, my comfort object was the kitchen. For a long period of time, whenever I was miserable, I would turn my eyes up at my mother and plead, “Go kitchen. Go kitchen.” She would promptly carry me into the kitchen, and I would immediately cheer up. Nobody, least of all me, knows what this signifies.
My parents have done a remarkable job at not losing me. Some of you may take it for granted that your parents never permanently misplaced you, but I don’t, and this is why. I thrash around a lot in my sleep, and as a result even when I was deemed big enough to not be stuck in a crib, my parents were forced to place large pillows on the floor next to the side of my bed that was not blocked off by the wall. One night, my movements must have gotten so violent that not only did I roll off of my bed, I continued to roll once I hit the ground and I propelled myself underneath the bed. This was no big deal. That is, until I woke up. Upon hearing my screams, my parents rushed in to my room and frantically scanned for their one and only daughter. I was nowhere to be seen. Had they really just lost their child? I can only imagine how ridiculous they must have felt when it finally occurred to them to look under my bed, where I lay, screaming in terror because I did not know where I was. If they had not had the good sense to find me, I might still be there.
I am scared of the dark. I used a nightlight until I was ten. Yes, ten. In the sixth grade, I could not sleep unless there was a light on in my room. When power outages happen, the first thing I do is freak out. Then I call for one of my parents. I am not a wuss. I’m just scared of the dark.