During Thanksgiving, dinner conversation changed at one point to how horrid I was as a child. "I was so worried about what you'd be like as a teenager," my mom told me, "but as it turned out I had nothing to worry about. You turned out really well." Then the reminiscing came into play. :)
My mom looked EVERYWHERE for me and my older brother, but could not find us for a few hours. Finally, in desperation, she called the police just in case. Going into the backyard in one last effort, she called out, "You two better come out! I called the police and they're going to come look for you!" Sure enough, a rustling sound suddenly came from underneath the camper. James and I came out from underneath. Furious at us for hiding and scaring her like that, she made us sit on the front porch with her to wait for the police to arrive, to explain what had happened. It was silent on the porch for a while, then suddenly I began gasping and crying, until I was full-out sobbing. Confused, my mom turned to me. "What's wrong?" she asked. Between sobs, I told her in devastation, "I don't want to go to prison and hang on the wall and get turned into a skeleton!" My mom said right then, her heart melted for me, and she hugged me and told me it was alright, I wouldn't have to go to jail.
"Oh, my goodness. And how bad she was with taking medicine!" my aunt chimed in. "Oh, goodness," my mom groaned, laughing and shaking her head. "Lisa, you were TERRIBLE!!" My mom and aunt then proceeded to recall both of them having to tackle me, sit on top of me, one of them holding me down and the other plugging my nose, forcing my mouth open, and trying to get the medicine in. I would gurgle out the medicine, getting it all over my clothes, and refuse to take it. "You were always either overdosing, or under dosing. We could never tell how much actually went into you, and how much was all over us and your clothes..."
I then contributed to the conversation, laughing over some of the things I remembered from when I was small. "One time, James and I were playing 'runaways', and making believe that we had run away from home and were going to live out in the wilderness. I was maybe 4 or 5 at the time, making James 6 or 7. Anyway, we decided to go live under this willow tree in someone's front yard, and had that be our home. That went well, until I realized I really had to go to the bathroom. "Hey, James," I told him, hesitantly, "can we go back home really quick? I have to go to the bathroom." James adamantly refused to go back home, and told me to just go over there (he pointed to a patch of grass maybe 6 feet away from where we were). Being the ever obedient little sister that I was, I went over there and went. As I was going, I remember feeling a little self conscious, since this was right in front of a busy road." At this point, my mom, aunt, uncle, and cousins were laughing rather hard at my story. "When I got back home, you were so mad at us for running off," I told my mom, laughing, "You sent us upstairs and barricaded the stairs with a couch so that we would have to stay up there." My mom was laughing, then told me, "Well, YEAH. Can you blame me? You two were always running off and getting into trouble, and you were always the perfectly obedient little follower."
Other stories were brought up, and we all laughed at what a horrible child I was. Now, other stories came to mind. :)
I was painting my younger sister's nails when my younger brother, just 3 years younger and next in line after me, came across us. "I want you to paint my nails, too!" he declared. I gave him an odd look. "Mathew, painting nails is a girl thing. You don't want me to paint your nails." After several minutes of declaring that he did indeed want his nails polished, I finally did his nails too. Then all three of us dressed up in dresses and did a fairy dance in the backyard.
My bike had once again made me fall, and I was furious with it. In punishment, I laid it out on the yard and proceeded to bury it in grass, as my way of holding a funeral for my bike. In my mind's eye, it looked at me with sadness and begged to not be buried, that it would do better, and wouldn't make me fall again. "No, I gave you warnings already. That was your last chance," I said aloud to my bike. Just as the funeral was nearing an end (it was almost covered in grass), my older brother called to me from across the street. "Hey, Lisa! Get your bike and come with me to a friend's house on a bike ride!" All anger towards my bike vanished, and I told it, "Ok, fine. You can have one more chance." My bike seemed to be singing in gratitude and happiness as I rode over to where my older brother stood, grateful to not be joined with the dead.