Dec 18 2008
Thursday’s Thievery - Born an Adult (NEW Weekly Feature!)
This is the I-don’t-know-how-many-times time I’ve stolen and expanded on a comment I’ve made at another blog blog. Given that I seem to be making a habit of this, I’ve decided to make stealing and expanding on a comment I’ve made on another blog a regular feature, every Thursday. And today’s blog is inspired by my comment on JD’s wonderful blog, I Do Things (because JD is a genius for inspiring stealable comments). Ironically, this particularly blog was taken from a comment made on The Junk Drawer so you can see I’m finally setting trends now that I totter on the edge of senility. Kudos, by the way, for Wit’s Bitch (close runner up) where I almost, instead, explained how I was a Sex Goddess so Chat Blanc didn’t have to be, but very few people would have bought it since I also claim to be a scientist. Given our reputations, no words I included would have convinced someone; for that, I would have needed video.
The question was, actually, if you’d ever done a major sick fake to psych out your parents. Well, I’m pathetic; I’ve never done anything like that. See, I think I was born at the age of 27. Don’t believe me? Let me tell you how pathetic at being young I was. I never faked an illness, but I faked a wellness so I could go to school. I never lied to get out of anything. If I failed to do something I was supposed to, it was because I was prematurely senile, starting at the age of four, not because I outsmarted anyone. I did bitch about doing stuff, but my mom knew I’d do it anyway. Anything that needed being done could be left to me, ’cause, like it or not, it never occurred to me not to do it.
I remember the time I had stomach flu. I woke up in the middle of the night, wondering why I woke up, then threw up. Oh, that’s why. Did I go get someone and demand attention? No, I didn’t want anyone know, so I cleaned it up. In the dark. With a fever of 104. I’ll spare you the details (it wasn’t pretty, or so I would think) and I was thorough. I even soaked the contaminated throw pillow in rubbing alcohol to kill the smell. Then, I went downstairs to wait until it was late enough to let my parents know I was sick. (And, no, as an adult I don’t understand the logic in hiding the fact I threw up in bed, but telling my parents I was sick.) I thought I waited until 5 am, but it was 3 (I had a fever remember). I was almost relieved to be sick; I’d made my sister laugh the night before and she’d thrown up. I’d gone to bed feeling guilty for being the cause. Whew, it was contagious.
I should also note that I almost never throw up. I mean, as of today, it has been twenty four years (with five pregnancies in that time frame) since I’ve thrown up. I figure, if I get sick enough to puke today, someone should probably call an ambulance because I probably belong in a hospital. So, chances are I was pretty sick then, too.
I never did tell them I threw up in bed. Until now if they happen to be reading this.
Actually, being sick in my family was no fun. I had six younger brothers and sisters and someone was always sicker than I was. I did a lot of fending for myself.
When I got chicken pox (after my sister did and during the summer of course), my other sister and brother got it at the same time. One of them had it really bad. So, I was on my own. The itching was horrible, worse than pain. So, after I’d had “enough,” I decided I had to cure this. That’s the way my mind worked. Nothing kills germs like rubbing alcohol so, in my infinite wisdom (and in my state of being left alone), I poured rubbing alcohol all down my back covered with open sores.
Do take a moment to appreciate how wonderful that must have felt. Think blow torch applied right after liquid nitrogen. Anyway, since I had a “theory” at the time (you do realize I’m a kid, right, maybe 10, 11 years old?) that any injury contained a finite amount of pain (OK, so I was stupid), I took this as a sign of success. I didn’t even scream.
God, what a geek I am.
Yep, JD fakes a concussion to get a whole lotta lovin’. Me, I torment myself quietly and don’t even ask for sympathy for real hurts. Ain’t hard to figure out which one of us is the real genius, is it? Good thing it never occurred to me to fake (or have) a concussion. My parents would have completely bought it but would have put me in a dark room to either sleep it off or die in a nice convenient way.
Now you know why I take my children’s childhood so seriously, why I so want to make sure they get to be kids. I’m not really sorry about how I turned out, seriously. But I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy, let alone the someones I love most.
So, if your kid does something boneheaded for attention, hey, give ‘em a little. At least they’re still kids and, all too soon, they won’t be any more. Every day, they look out into their future and, all too soon, they’re out there.
C’mon, I’m not the only one who finds that a little sad. (And yes, I shamelessly reused this picture because I loved it. It makes me misty every time I see it. Hey, it’ Thursday’s Thievery!)
