CHILDHOOD STORIES

My favorite joke from my childhood:

Marissa: Knock knock

Dad: Who’s there?

Marissa: Cantaloupe

Dad: Cantaloupe who?

Marissa: Cantaloupe baby, Daddy’s got the car

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I didn't start walking until I was about 16 months old, but my sister swears I started talking at around 4 months. Now I don't completely believe that, but I do know I had a very extensive vocabulary at a very young age. During family scripture studies, I would have my own set of scriptures placed in my lap so that I wouldn't feel left out. I would stick my nose straight into the book and loudly proclaim some gibberish as a contribution of my needed few verses. I would then turn the page and continue with my 'reading'. This is how I became the official reader in the family.

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My siblings used to teach me to do things when I was little that they thought were funny. Personally, I think it was torture, but they just wanted a good laugh. Whenever we talked about Thanksgiving they would ask me what my favorite thing to do on Thanksgiving was and I would reply by sticking my hands straight up in the air and shouting, “FOOTBALL!”

The most embarrassing thing they did to me, however, was quite terrible. They would ask me, “Where are your cheeks?” My little two-year-old self would slap my hands to my face in glee. Then they would ask me, “Where are your other cheeks?” And I would proudly grab my little bottom, elated that I was able to prove my genius at such a young age.

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When I was two, my sister would always take me with her and her friends when they hung out. I called these outings my ‘hot dates’. Most of the time it would be my sister, her boyfriend, and one of her good friends who was my ‘date’. He was half-Japanese and my little eyes had never beheld such gorgeousness. I would always ask my sister when I could go on another hot date with Braden. Usually we went to Dairy Queen where I would chomp on my Dilly Bar while throwing flirtatious glances towards Braden. He always told me that unless someone captured me first, we would get married someday. Although he is now happily married, I still get butterflies every time I hear his name and remember those hot dates at DQ.

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It was the summer of 2005, and I was headed out on one of my weekly outings with my sister-in-law and her five boys, Cayden (6 ½), Alex and Drew (almost 5), and Adam and Isaac (8 months). This time McDonald’s was the destination of choice. Once we took our food to our tables the boys and I shoved it down so fast we hardly got the chance to see it. The hamburgers and chicken nuggets were just an after-taste in our childish mouths. The three older boys and I raced towards the empty playground, calling out, “Last one there is a rotten egg!”

It was a great afternoon until disaster struck. Cayden and I were waiting behind Drew to slide down the huge yellow tube slide. After Drew hopped into the slide and careened downwards we realized that he was leaving brown spots in his wake. It took us a few moments before we realized that those brown spots were in fact poo. I gulped loudly. I was NOT going down that slide anymore!

Instead, Cayden and I raced back down the play ground (a different way from that slide), and told my sister-in-law, Alyson, that Drew had pooed all down the slide, and the slide was now full of little brown mush. Drew, on the other hand, was now playing around like nothing had happened. Alyson immediately took hold of Drew and steered him towards the bathroom giving Cayden and I the instructions to go down the slide with wet wipes, cleaning it up. I was beginning to regret ever coming on this little excursion.

The walk to the top of the slide was probably one of the longest in my entire life. I felt as if I was in a funeral procession, and I was the one in the casket. I kept picturing all the grotesque things that could happen on that cursed slide. The feel of the brown matter on my hands, or anywhere for that matter, made me shudder.

When we finally arrived at the slide my face was pale white and my palms were sweaty. My nephew, Cayden, being the boy he is, had no problem whatsoever with the present situation we were faced with. He lowered himself into the slide and looked back at me as if to ask, "Are you coming?" I swallowed hard and placed myself beside him holding the wet wipe out before me to ward off any incoming poo. We slid down the slide, inch by inch, rubbing the disgusting waste off the yellow plastic whenever we ran into it.

By the time we arrived at the bottom, I was ready to forget about this terrible afternoon. Alyson had cleaned up Drew and had taken the infant Isaac's pants (who, let me remind you, was only 8 months and had been born premature), and put them on Drew to keep at least some of his decency. The funny thing is, those shorts were only a little too short on him. After everything had been settled, we quickly left and I was able to go home and forget about that traumatic day, at least until now.