A Series of Unfortunate Events
Age 4: I wake up. The hallway and bedrooms of our ranch house are dark. It feels like the middle of the night, but I have no way of knowing what time it really is. There are lights and voices and phone calls happening out in the kitchen and the living room. My parents are awake and something is wrong. My teenage cousin is coming to babysit me and my baby brother because my dad's father has had a heart attack. I can't really really remember Grandpap McGuiggan, but I slept with Muffin, the brown and white stuffed dog he gave me, until I went to college.
Age 6: I'm going to have an operation to remove my adenoids. Mom and Dad had originally
Age 7: My second grade teacher mocks me in front of the class when I say I don't know what street I live on. I DO know that I live on Harrison Avenue, but she didn't ask for my address or for the name of my avenue. She asked for my street. My friend Julie lives on Third Street, but I don't live on a Street. I live on an Avenue. This penchant for exactness will later drive my husband crazy.
Age 9: I make my mom talk to my third grade teacher because Amy H. was tested for the gifted program and I wasn't, even though I make better grades than her. I finally join the gifted program in sixth grade. Much later I realize that while Amy may have had average grades, this had absolutely nothing to do with her stellar intellect.
This post was inspired by this mighty blogger, this superhero, and this cheesy gal. I like this format and think I might play around with it -- especially since this sampling makes it sound like my childhood was full of nothing but grief, pain, humiliation, and frustration. I promise: I was a happy child and am well adjusted. My head finally caught up with my ears. But my nose was a source of contention in middle school.
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