My First Decade
Age ?: I take one of my brother's stuffed animals off his bed. It's a homemade bunny, with a tail made from real rabbit fur. It's quite flat, but I adore it. I hold its butt in my right hand with my pinky, my fourth finger, and my thumb. With my middle and index fingers, I grasp its tail. Bunny goes to bed with me every night, and comes to breakfast with me every morning. Every night at bedtime, all family members get involved in the hunt for Bunny, as I've taken him all over the house with me during the day. Over the years, Bunny goes through several surgeries to give him a new tail, since I wear out each successive one.
Age ?: My mom refers to my dad as Jim when she talks to us, as in "go ask Jim" instead of "go ask your dad." My brother and I get in the habit of calling our dad Jim, and it still sticks. Sometimes I wonder if it makes him sad that nobody calls him "dad."
Age 3: My dad reads to me every night before bed. I always request the same books: the Berenstain Bears. My dad could probably recite these books verbatim, he's read them so often. But he never complains-- he just makes up his own storyline to go along with the pictures, which winds up being much funnier than the original story. My dad is a riot.
Age 4: Christmas Eve. My brother and I walk out into the candle-lit living room, where all our presents are, and I see one chair covered in homemade doll clothes. My mother has sewn, knit, and crocheted all kinds of doll clothes by hand. It's still one of my all-time favorite Christmases.
Age 5: My mom is taking a public speaking class at the university. If I let her practice her speeches in front of me, I get to play with her high-heeled shoes. It doesn't get any better than this!
Age 6: I start half-day kindergarten. We learn about colors and shapes and numbers. I'm irritated at how slow the other kids seem to be.
Age 7: I'm assigned to do a group project on Ecuador. I immediately decide that "the equator runs through Ecuador, so that's how Ecuador got its name." It seems so obvious, so clearly correct, I don't even bother to fact-check it. I am a genius.
Age 8: I'm in second grade and my teacher, Mrs. Havenstein, is the greatest. I ask her opinion on everything. But when I ask her opinion about decisions I'm trying to make, she always answers, "it's up to you." I wish I'd understood then what she was trying to teach me-- I'm still bad at making decisions.
Age 9: In school we do a lot of reading out loud, where one student is asked to read a passage while the other kids read along silently. Many of my classmates stumble over big words that I already know how to pronounce, so I say those words out loud for them. Yeah, I'm that classmate.
Age 10: We routinely have to play kickball at school. I hate kickball. To me, kickball is a fate worse than death. I can run like the wind, but I can't kick the ball to save my life. Can I have a pinch-kicker, please?