Pen on paper,

The words spill out on the page,

I'm helpless-

Helpless to stop them,

They scream the truth.

Pen on paper,

My thoughts wrestling in my mind,

Each needing to be the one written down,

Although almost all would hurt me,

Or hurt someone else.

Pen on paper,

My life is written out

In three simple words,

Spoken, or unspoken,

I know they're true.

Pen on paper,

I close my fist,

Sweep the pages to the side,

I tell myself that what I've written isn't right,

Maybe it was at one time,

But not anymore.

Things have changed.

But have they really?

Pen on paper,

I must find myself again,

Cling to the thoughts,

Those thoughts which kept me going for so long,

I can't think,

I must write.

Pen on paper,

Scratching across the surface,

Messily running through the lines,

My hand flying across the page

As I write this letter,

This truth I cannot deny,

Written by

Pen on paper.

I Swear I'm Perfectly Normal...

This semester I'm taking creative writing, and right now we're in our poetry unit. This was the last poem I wrote-- Tell me what you think about it! :)

Waves envelop me

As I wade into the water.

Colors, more than one would imagine

Swirl around me as I sink slowly.

Memories flash through my mind,

My first kiss,

My last argument,

Holding my baby sister in my arms.

I feel nothing anymore,

No pain, no joy,

Only emptiness,

As slowly, my world fades to black.

The rain is falling,

Pitter, patter, on the ground.

Dark clouds loom overhead,

The sound of thunder pounds in the distance.

And where am I?

I'm not hiding from this wet monster,

Nor watching it safely from the comfort of my house,

I'm not walking down the street guarded by a black umbrella,

No, I'm outside, barefoot and free,

Twirling around, my face turned towards heaven,

The music of this storm plays on in my head,

As I direct the orchestra of clouds with my hands.

"Are you crazy?!" some might say, as they pass me on the street,

"Perhaps," is my sly reply.

As the drops of water coat my skin,

And the danger of lightning is imminent,

I ponder their words.

Were they right? I don't know,

but I don't care what they think,

They may laugh, they may scorn,

But I am strong, I can make it through,

Because....

"life isn't about waiting for the storm to pass it's about learning to dance in the rain."

The Swings

I see her sitting there, all alone in the park.

The swing she's perched on is gently rocking back and forth. Her head hangs low, her shoulders slumped, and although her back is to me I know that she's been crying.

I know because I've been there. I was once that girl on the swing set, no one to talk to, drowning in my sorrows. I've been there before. We all have.

As I watch her I think to myself, "Does she know? Does she know how beautiful she is?" I wish I could reach out and envelop her with a hug, and tell her that eventually it will be okay.

The struggles at school.

The trouble at home.

The lack of self-worth.

The sadness.

The loneliness.

The pain.

She doesn't have to deal with this forever (no one does).

I can tell what she's thinking, the things she's contemplating that will, in her mind, make it better.

They won't.

"You're beautiful," I whisper into the wind, hoping she might hear me, "Inside and out. You don't have to do this to yourself."

I think of the Savior, and what he did for each of us, how he suffered all of our pains. No matter what we've done, he still loves us. He wants us to return to live with him someday, and to live a good life before then. He wouldn't want that girl to be swinging alone in the park, lost in her pain. He wants us all to be happy.

As these thoughts race through my mind, I hear the creak of rusty swings that have been neglected far too long. I notice that the girl is swinging higher and higher now, her head raised, pumping her legs with vigor.

Why did she suddenly seem more happy?

Then I noticed a stranger swinging in the swing next to her. His entire countenance seemed to be glowing, and from across the park where I stood, I could feel a sense of love coming from him. Impressed in my mind were the words I had read only hours before in seminary,

"In the world ye shall have tribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world." (John 16:33).

I smiled to myself; everything would be okay.

This is Sort of a Sad Tale (a.k.a. I have no life on Friday nights...)

This is the rough draft to a story I've been working on. Let me know what you think! (And any advice you'd have for me would be welcome too) :) Enjoy:

"I just got off the phone with the doctor. Your father, he's...gone."

Those words sounded like a broken record in my mind for the next month as funeral arrangements were made, the will was read and followed, and all the stuff in his apartment was boxed up. In fact, that is exactly what I was doing when my mother first suggested a trip to the doctor.

"Honey," she explained, "You haven't eaten a solid meal in weeks! You shut yourself in here all day, and you only leave if it's absolutely necessary. I really think we should go see someone."

"You mean, like a shrink?" I asked quietly as I slid the packaging tape across the opening of the cardboard container holding the last of my dad's vast book collection.

"A grief counselor. Many people go to one when they lose someone close to them. It's totally normal!"

As always, my mother sounded like a peppy high school cheerleader. Had I been a stranger meeting her for the first time, I never would have believed that her ex-husband had died three weeks prior, let alone that she had once had a husband. Her bleached-blonde hair and salon tanned skin would be right at home with the popular girls at my high school. It had been 17 years since she had graduated from the same school, yet I could tell she would give her $40 fluorescent fake nails and all of the Botox injections she had ever received to be back walking the halls of Steelecreek High.

At 35, my mother was about as mature as Katy Perry, and probably a little more naive than Miley Cyrus. I suppose that was partially due to the fact that she hadn't had much time to learn about the real world after leaving the public school system. She had married her high school sweetheart (and the captain of the football team), Jordan McDaniels, about four months after graduation. Nine months later, they got me; and two years after that, my mother filed for divorce.

Whenever I asked her why she had ended her relationship with my father, she always told me it was because her expectations of marriage had been too high, and she found that she preferred the single life. Mom went on a lot of dates throughout my childhood and teenage years, and she always left me with my dad, who lived in the exact apartment where I had resided for my first two years of existence. Even though I resented my mother for ditching me to go out with her boyfriends, these times spent with my dad became times to look forward to. We played endless rounds of games like 'Sorry!' and 'UNO', went out for ice cream at the local Dairy Queen, tossed a football around at a nearby park, and watched practically any (and every) type of movie. These little 'dates' with my dad were the most special because I got to learn a lot about who Jordan McDaniels really was.

I learned that he loved to cook, and that he had always dreamed of going to culinary school and becoming a chef. He hadn't, however, because my grandparents didn't believe that cooking food was a respectable profession. Instead, he was stuck working at an insurance company and trying all his new food creations out on me. I also learned that he had loved my mother since they had started high school, and that even though she despised him and wanted absolutely nothing to do with him, he still loved and cared for her.

And when I was twelve, I learned that my dad had cancer.

"Well, what do you think, kiddo? I think that talking to someone like this will help you move on a lot easier."

My mother's words brought me back to reality, "I'm fine," I mumbled, frustrated at her persistence.

"No, sweetie, you are not," she whispered, reaching out to move a stray curl from where it had fallen over my eyes. I turned my head, willing her to get the message that I didn't need anything from her, and that I definitely didn't want anything. Her gaze was now pleading as she looked at me, "I made us an appointment with Dr. Baker tomorrow at three. I would really like you to come with me."

"Whatever," I replied, ending the conversation.

She turned and started to leave the room, "Okay Alex," she sighed, looking, for a moment, as if she were ten years older, "Call me when you're done here and I'll come pick you up."

Without waiting for a response from me, she swept from the room. I let out my breath that I had been subconsciously holding for who knows how long. I ran my hands through my dark brown locks as the first sob caught in my throat. Soon the tears came pouring down my cheeks, as they had on so many other afternoons such as this. I had given up trying to hold them back long ago, and now let them freely come. That is, until I spotted a tiny box in the corner of an otherwise empty shelf that I must have overlooked before.

I stood and wiped my eyes, now red and puffy from crying, on my shirtsleeve. Making my way through the stacks of boxes and other paraphernalia, I moved almost as if I was in a trance towards the bookshelf. I looked down at the small box and saw that my name was on it, written in my dad's messy scrawl. I had no clue how I could have possibly overlooked it before, but all that was forgotten as I lifted the lid. Inside the container was a chain holding on it a small key and a tag stating that the key belonged to a bank located just a few short blocks away. I put the key in my jacket pocket and quickly walked out of the apartment.

*****

The bank employee led me to a room filled with safety deposit boxes of all different sizes. He took the key from me and opened a medium-sized box, removing the contents. He handed to me two leather bound journals and a slip of paper which read:

These are for you should you want them.

I love you so much Alex!

Love,

Dad

Thanking the employee, I quickly exited the bank and made my way to a nearby deserted park, with its plastic playground faded and run-down. I sat down at the bottom of the large yellow twisty slide and opened the journal marked with a number one in black ink. The first page read:

July 12, 1992

Dear Alex,

I witnessed a miracle today. That miracle was you. I never thought I could love someone so much, yet when I first saw your beautiful face looking up at me I knew I was hooked. Your tiny fingers squeezed my pinky so tightly as I held you in my arms. You are already so strong, Alex! Soon I realized that I couldn't afford to forget this day-or any moment of your life. I walked down to the hospital gift shop and bought this journal in which I am now writing. Not only am I writing this for my own sake, but for you also, so that one day, somewhere down the road, you will read this and smile, knowing that I-your father-love you more than I have ever loved anyone. Never, ever forget that.

Love,

Dad

I shut the book and leaned back against the cool slide, closing my eyes. For the first time since my mom had shared with me the painful news of my father's death from cancer, I felt as if I could breathe again. A weight had been lifted from off my chest that I didn't even realize had been there. Even though it still hurt, and even though there was now a hole in my heart that I knew could never be filled again, I could sense that things would get better. My dad was not completely gone from me-I still had his memories.

I slid my cell phone from the front pocket of my whitewashed jeans, and pressed number three on speed dial. I could tell she had been waiting for my call because she picked up after only the first ring:

"Hello?"

"Hey, Mom, I'm ready now. Do you think you could come pick me up?"

Things wouldn't be perfect between us, not by a long shot. I realized then, though, that you never truly know what you've lost until it's gone, and that you should fix any mistakes you've made, and let those you care about know how you feel, because you never know how long you have left.

"Oh, and Mom? I love you."

Meg

It was the summer of 1982 when everything changed. I remember sitting out on my granddaddy’s porch in my favorite tank top and cut-offs, sipping lemonade and watching the sun set over the distant horizon. My granddaddy would sit next to me in his wicker rocking chair, not talking much, just gazing into collage of colors in the sky. This is how every evening went, sitting on his white wrap-around porch which was faded from too many years of neglect. Momma said that when Gramma was still alive the porch always had a fresh coat of paint, just like the rest of the house. Now it was only a glimpse of how beautiful the house had been. The green shutters that outlined the big, clear glass windows were starting to fall off their hinges and the paint was rusting. The porch steps were completely destroyed so that you had to leap all the way up to the porch from 2 feet down. The inside of his house wasn’t much better.

The only things on Granddaddy’s property that didn’t show signs of their age were the sweet birch trees that grew all over the property. Granddad would always make sure they were watered and cared for properly, and sometimes he’d let me help him. I always wondered why he’d take so much care of the trees and not his house, but I had only asked him about it once. When I asked him, Granddaddy just looked over at me with his wise blue eyes and said, “Now Meg, these trees are part of the living folk, like you or me. We’re just helping them stay that way.”

It was that year when Granddaddy got diagnosed with lung cancer. He didn’t like going to the hospital much so they didn’t find it until he collapsed in the kitchen when he and Aunt Bee were having a talk one afternoon. Aunt Bee called 911 and they rushed him to the hospital where they discovered that he had a brain tumor. They immediately started treatment though the doctor told my momma there wasn’t much hope of his living, seeing as the treatment was so rigorous and he was so old. The doctor also said that if Granddaddy came home after his first round of treatments, he’d need somebody there to look after him. Momma and I talked about it a lot and decided that we’d move into his house from our own beat up apartment building. We were the only ones who could, after all. Uncle Carl was in law school up north, and Aunt Bee had 6 children to look after, whereas all Momma had was me. It wasn’t too different to actually live in Granddad’s house. After all, we spent most of our time there already.

The only strange thing was Granddad. A lot of the time he wasn’t at home and when he was there, all he did was sit in his bed watching the brand new TV my Momma bought him and sleeping. It scared me how different he seemed. His face looked older, more vacant, and he was a lot quieter. We never sat out on the porch and watched the sunset anymore. He would just sleep. Sometimes I’d sit outside his bedroom door and watch him, how much more frail he looked. And thin, he was way too thin. And when he would get sick and hurt a lot I would be hurting with him. I would never cry though. I needed to be strong for Momma since this was her weakest time.

A few months after the treatment begin Momma brought Granddaddy home as usual, but something was different. They were standing up a little taller and my momma’s face shone as she grinned and said, “Hey baby, guess what? Granddaddy’s in remission.”

That night we had a celebration. Remission meant that Granddaddy had won his battle with cancer, at least for now. We dressed up in our best things and went out and bought a pint of ice cream to share. We turned on the radio and danced around in our living singing at the top of our lungs until we collapsed in a heap on the floor because we were so tired. When the sun set all three of us went out to watch it. And in my 9 year old mind this was the most beautiful sunset I had ever seen. Even now I can picture it as it was on that on that evening. We sat side by side on the porch swing, my head in Momma’s lap and my hand clasped in Granddaddy’s. I never wanted this night to end; I wanted it to go on forever.

For the next 2 months everything seemed brighter and more upbeat. Momma and I cleaned Granddaddy’s house and even put a fresh coat of paint on the outside. All three of us would go to the park at least once a week and I would play on the playground while they would watch me. They’d clap when I did a particularly hard trick, hold me up when I couldn’t reach the monkey bars all the way, and comfort me when I fell down. We'd go everywhere and see everything around during the daytime, but we always made it back to watch sunset on the porch. Oftentimes I would fall asleep with my head in Momma's lap. Those days were the epitome of my life, nothing could be better.

It was one of those days when everything was chaos. Granddad, Momma, and I had gone to the park in the morning, then run to the grocers, and then back home to work around the yard for a while. Momma tried to make Granddad lay down inside while we puttered around the yard, but he wouldn't have it. He told us that if we were going to make him sit down and watch us work on his own yard, he might as well be dead already. So Momma gave in and let him work with us, though she wouldn't let him do anything she deemed 'too strenuous'.

We worked all afternoon and then went inside for some sandwiches. Granddaddy said he was just going to take a quick nap before supper because he was a little tired. We didn't think twice about it and kept on fixing our sandwiches. When we were done with the dinner preparations we checked on Granddad and saw that he was still sleeping, so instead of waking him up, we went ahead and ate our sandwiches.

Momma and I found quiet things to occupy us as the sun grew lower and lower in the horizon, but as the evening wore on and Granddaddy still didn't wake, we began to worry a little. As the sunset began to fade without us there to share it, Momma decided to wake Granddaddy up herself. She went into his room and gently shook him, but he didn't wake. She tried a little harder, but to no avail. Then she prodded and poked him until my arms hurt just thinking about it. As she was doing this her voice called out to me, calm, but forced like a kid being forced to come back down after jumping real high on a trampoline. "Hand me the phone baby girl," she said slowly.

Now when Momma gets that tone with me, I've learned to do whatever she asks as quickly and as quietly as possible. I grabbed the phone from the kitchen counter and handed it to her. She dialed a three digit number and quickly placed the phone by her ear. I stopped listening as soon as Momma started talking. Her voice had lost its calm tone and took on a more frantic, more weak one. That scared me just as much as her first tone. I didn't know what was happening to Granddad, or why he wouldn't wake up, but I knew it wasn't good.

Soon the sound of sirens filled the neighborhood as an ambulance pulled into our driveway. Some official looking men came into our house with a stretcher and took Granddaddy away. They asked Momma if she wanted to come with them but she said no, she would be along later with me. Then Momma started packing Granddaddy's stuff together and piling a lot of it in the car. We both got in and drove off into the night, following the distant sounds of the ambulance. Momma's hands were tense on the steering wheel, which meant she was concentrating real hard on her driving, so I didn't bother her with the thousands of questions I was dying to ask.

We rushed into the Wakefield Medical Center and straight up to the reception desk. The lady there directed us to the curtained space where Granddaddy was being held in the emergency room. He had doctors and other medical staff swarmed around him, poking needles into him and doing all sorts of scary stuff which brought me to tears. My Granddaddy looked so helpless lying there. We sat down by the curtain, out of the way so they wouldn't have to trip over us to help Granddad, but close enough so we could hear what they said. After what felt like hours one of the doctors came to us and told my momma that Granddaddy's cancer had come back and had spread all over his body. They were going in for emergency surgery, but they needed her consent first. Momma readily gave it, but not before she asked what the chance of recovery for this kind of procedure was.

"15% chance of making a full recovery, seeing as the cancer has spread, and looking at his age," the doctor said matter-of-factly, "We'll see you in a few hours and give you an update on how it's going."

The night following was the longest night of my life. Scenes of it flashed in and out like dreams. I remember us crying and hugging each other, scared for each other, and scared for Granddaddy. Then things kind of went to black until the doctor came out and told Momma that they had lost Granddaddy half way through the surgery, and even though they had tried for an hour to revive him, he was really gone. Momma bent over she was sobbing so hard, and then gripped me in a hug so tight I feared she would never let go. In my 9 year old mind I couldn't possibly fathom what death meant, because all the people I had ever lost before were gone before I could remember much about them. I believed that Granddaddy would reappear the next day, right as rain, and ready to go care for his trees, and watch the sunset with me. But Granddaddy didn't appear. Not the next day or the next.

The funeral was on Saturday. I put on my new little black dress and followed Momma to the church, where I had one last look at Granddaddy lying so still in his coffin, and it hit me then and there that I would never see his smiling face again. I broke down into tears and couldn't move from that spot until the pallbearers came to take him away. Momma escorted me to a nearby chair where I sat crying while the funeral was going on outside. She sat with me the whole time, helping me through my break down, as I had helped her through hers a few days before.

That night, and for many nights to come, as the sun went down, I wasn't out there to watch it. The trees in the yard stood forlorn and forgotten. The house went back to its previous state of disrepair, though not because of Momma. She went to work at two jobs, one at a gas station, the other and a grocery store. I, on the other hand, couldn't bear to do much aside from getting up in the morning, anything else seemed like I was betraying Granddaddy by doing it without him. I couldn't even move the TV remote from his bedside table because I was afraid that by moving it, I would lose the memory of seeing Granddaddy pick it up, and flip through the channels on a day when he was too tired or too sick to do much else. I didn't want to lose him, or lose my memory of him. I felt that by doing things he would've done without him, I would forget the memories we'd had together, doing those things.

I had gotten so out of schedule that I didn't even remember my own birthday until we got a letter in the mail announcing that school was going to start again in two weeks. My birthday was always on the day we received that letter, and Momma always told me that they used my birthday to remind them to send out the notice. I didn't think I could go back to school again and face all my friends, knowing that my life had completely changed since I saw them last. I tried not to dwell on the memories of Granddaddy walking me to school or hobbling along the street after me with my forgotten lunch box. School would never be the same.

Since it was my birthday, Momma came home from work that day with a small cake that said, 'Happy birthday Meg' on it along with 10 little candles. It was late in the evening as Momma blindfolded me and led me out on the porch as the crickets serenaded us with their song. She took the blindfold off my eyes only for me to behold the most beautiful sunset that I had ever seen. My eyes filled with tears as I thought of all the times Granddaddy and I had spent out here together.

"I can just see Granddaddy up in heaven, painting this sunset in the sky just for your birthday, baby girl. He was always the happiest out here with you," Momma said as she smiled down upon me. I realized right then that Granddaddy was still watching the sunset with me, except now he was up in heaven, where there was no pain and no sickness. And as far as forgetting him, watching the sun go down and the stars fill the night sky would rather be a reminder of all the memories we'd had together.

p.s. Happy Valentine's Day Grandpa! I miss you and love you and hope you're having a great time up in heaven :)

Childhood Memories

You may call me a copycat, but I have nothing else to blog about, so I decided I will take Celeste's delightful idea of putting you English stories on your blog. The next few blogs will be about the time David Black cut my long brown locks, childhood anecdotes, and my 4th grade romance, respectively. Enjoy!

HAIR!

Practically from our mother's wombs, my next door neighbor and I became best friends. We played together all the time, making up adventures in the fort in my backyard, or having tea parties in his. Then, when I moved 300 feet away from my old house, suddenly there were new places to explore and new things to do! I had a sand box in my backyard and we spent endless afternoons making castles and little mud pies.

One of my favorite things to do with him, however, was play with my Barbie dolls. We would place Barbie accessories all over my room to make it one gigantic Barbie mansion. The Kelly House would be in one corner of my vast closet, the Polly Pocket mall in the other corner. The petting zoo (fully accessorized with a panda bear, monkey, koala bear, and a swan with her baby), rested on top of a pink quilt folded neatly on the edge of my bed. I played the part of the girl dolls, most noteworthy Barbie and her daughter Kelly. My neighbor, David, played the part of Ken and Tommy, my only two boy dolls. We made up stories for their lives and the scandals that happened in them.

I always loved doing the dolls' hair. I would soak it in water and then attempt to comb it and put it in a cute hairdo. I always tried to get David to join me but he, being the boy, was reluctant to do anything that didn't involve blood and guts. One day as I was pleading with him to join me in my daily hair-doing rituals, I came up with a brilliant idea. I had seen my mom cutting my dad's hair a few days before, and I knew where she kept the scissors.

"We should cut the Barbie dolls' hair!" I shrieked, delighted with this plan that surely had been made by a genius.

I was confident that my plan, in all its simplicity, would work perfectly, and that my mom would be so delighted if one so young as I was able to prove her astounding hair cutting skills to her. David quickly agreed to this plan, and we quickly checked to the see if the coast was clear (my mom was working outside) before racing to grab our weapon of choice from where it was carefully placed in my parent's bathroom drawer.

My genius must still have been flowing at high speed because once we returned to my bedroom I proposed an addition to the plan. "Hey, besides cutting the Barbies' hair, do you want to cut mine too?"

David's eyes sparkled as he contemplated this wondrous idea and finally admitted, "That would be cool."

We sat on the blue rug placed carefully on my bathroom floor as he hacked off my hair, just like the lady in my ward did when she cut my hair. The Barbie dolls were pushed aside as this new pastime took their place. I was blissfully ignorant of any consequences that could come from this activity, and only thought of the happy look on my mother's face when I showed her the finished product.

Soon enough he had finished cropping my hair to the length and style I had dictated to him before he began his barber tasks. I stood on the green and yellow plastic stool and admired myself in the mirror. I was decked out in striped blue and white overalls over a white t-shirt, but that was not what I was admiring on this fine summer day. It was my hair, beautifully cut so that it was so short that you could practically see my skull in some places, and past my shoulders in other areas.

Unfortunately, we didn't have time to prepare for my grand entrance into society, for at that moment my mom chose to come inside to check on us. I grinned, a few teeth missing, as I twirled for my mom. She, however, did not grin upon seeing the state of my brown locks. She simply asked, "Who did this?"

I pointed to the edge of the big white bathtub, where David was placed, scissors in hand, trying to make himself as small as possible. He saw what I could not at that moment, that this was not something to be grinning about. My mom ripped the scissors from his grasp, told us to sit right there, and immediately left the room. Soon we could hear her talking on the phone to someone, saying things like, "Do you know what your son did?" and, "I don't know how they knew where those scissors were!"

My mom soon came back into the bathroom with orders to send David right home. He walked past her with a sheepish look on his face, without so much as glancing in my direction. As soon as he was gone, my mom flashed her fiery eyes in my direction. I gulped loudly, I had never seen her so angry. She gave me quite a talkin'-to that day, and the spanking my dad gave me when he got back from work still brings back pain whenever I remember it. My mom took me to get my hair fixed (at least, as well as our hair dresser could), and I learned from the many tears shed over the next few days that having a 6 year old cut my hair was probably not the best idea. Still, I'll never forget that warm afternoon with my next door neighbor.

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

*****

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.

*****

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.

*****

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.

*****

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.

FOURTH GRADE LOVE

Note: Names have been changed to protect the innocent (although, I'm not sure if this means me or the kid this is about).

It was the first day of fourth grade and I couldn’t wait to arrive at school! My mom had helped me put my hair in perfect little ringlets, and I had on my brand new clothes purchased not even a week before. I was so excited I could barely hold still as my mom put the finishing touches on my outfit. Once I was all ready for school, I raced down my driveway, my one-shouldered purple backpack bouncing along with me. My neighbor, Brianna, was waiting for me at the bottom of my driveway and with a quick ‘hello’ we were off!

Along the way to school we chattered incessantly about various things, but mostly about school. Brianna was to be a fifth grader this year, and was so excited for the new adventures that held for her! We waited for the crossing guard, who was shrouded in a bright orange vest and holding a scarlet stop sign, to wave us across the street.

Once across that busy street, we stopped and gazed up at the beautiful building before us, the words ‘Jennie P. Stewart Elementary’ blaring out at us in bold black letters from above the front doors. We ran to the side of the building near the white portables where we would be lining up with our classmates before school started. I found the bold ‘N’ spray painted on the asphalt in orange marking where Ms. Nelson’s class would line up at the bell. I looked around at the students already standing there-they were to be my future classmates. I saw a few people I was friends with and quickly ran to share my joy at returning to school with them.

Then, the bell rang. All of the students quickly lined up in their various classes as the teachers walked out the side doors of the school to pick us up. As Ms. Nelson stood before us I looked at her smiling face and instantly knew I had been placed in the right class for my fourth grade year. She led us to her classroom and as soon as I stepped in I felt a warmth and love resonating around me as if I had just stepped into my grandmother’s kitchen. We hung our backpacks up on the pegs assigned to us and found our desks by the name tags placed on top of them. I looked around at my new neighbors, would they be my new best friends? This year would be different than previous years, this year would be amazing, I could just sense it.

It wasn't until lunch that I discovered the boy I would be in love with for the next year-and-a-half. I was sitting with my friends Maggie and Kate, discussing everything from nail polish to licking food off of hobo's feet, and then Kate got onto the topic of boys. We chatted a bit about cute boys in our class, especially the new kids. She then mentioned a particular name that sparked little interest in me. Johnny. I had noticed him from afar, yet he was no different than any other guy. However, Kate's descriptions of him made me see him in a whole new light. Let's just say, I never looked at those blue eyes the same way again. He was sitting at a lunch table just two tables away from where I was squeezed in between my friends. I watched him chew his food, noting at the graceful way his jaw moved up and down with each bite.

After that moment, I was hooked. My nine year old self was convinced I had found my one true love. The only problem was Kate felt the same way and we battled over him, calling out 'he's mine' to each other whenever we passed, as if he was a piece of land...or meat. We convinced Maggie to ask him at least once a week which one of us he liked more, so it was probably no secret how we felt about him. Each time she asked him it would be a different answer. Some days it was "Uh... I guess... Marissa?" Others, "Kate? Sure? Kate?" And still others, "Is there a door number three?"

On those days when he picked Kate over me my little heart would break just a fraction. However, this would only make me fight harder to win my prize, to be the number one in this adorable little boy's life. All three of us were in the same class so the battle for the boy raged on all day long. I took pride in the fact that I was a great listener, and I would start up conversations with him as we waited for the bell for recess or the end of school. I swung back and forth, my hands placed firmly on the desks to either side of me, as I listened to him explain what he had done the previous weekend. A lot of the time, he would talk about going paintballing with his friends, and although I had no clue what that was, I would smile and pretend like I did. "Oh, I do that all the time! It's my favorite activity!"

I was the better candidate for his love, and Kate knew it. She spent all of her time insulting me, whining to me, and even hurting me when I tried to talk to Johnny. One particular incident happened after he performed well at a school event. It was during recess and I was playing our regular game of wall ball with Kate and several other friends. I noticed Johnny and his friends walking the track close to where we were involved in our intense game, so when the ball bounced off of the cement I volunteered to retrieve it. I bent over to grab the pink bouncy ball off the ground right as he was passing. "Good job John-" I started, about to congratulate him on his good performance. Right at that moment, however, I felt a body slam into me from behind, knocking me into the asphalt. It had been Kate, the lioness trying to wipe out the competition for her mate. Kate laughed up at Johnny's shocked face, as if this was a joke that he did not need to be bothered with. He walked on, and I shoved Kate off of me, my head pounding and hot tears forming in my eyes.

"You're so--evil!!" I shrieked. At that moment jealousy and hatred coursed through my veins. Through my blurred vision I saw Kate for who she truly was, the devil herself. I slapped her as hard as I could and ran away from the scene of the crime. From that point on, Kate and I were never truly friends again. We may have been forced by our parents to apologize to each other, may have even gone through the motions of becoming friends again, but I could never completely forget about what she had done to me.

Many incidents of this sort happened throughout the school year. The summer brought a trip to Oregon with my parents. I brought along a bright orange Winnie the Pooh notebook that I would fill with doodles of Star Wars characters and romantic lyrics from the CD I was listening to. I decided that I would give this to Johnny on the first day of fifth grade. Kate had moved away that summer and so I had Johnny all to myself.

On the first day of school I arrived there with butterflies in my stomach, the orange notebook clutched tightly in my arms. I could see Johnny's freshly cut hair standing out over the crowd of kids. I fought through the hordes of children until I stood before him. "Here, this is for you," I whispered, my heart in my stomach, as I handed him the notebook I had worked so hard on, "You can throw it away if you don't want it."

He wasn't in my class this year so I hardly ever saw him. My infatuation with him carried me through the first half of the year, but by January I was totally over him and had moved on with my life. I realized that the only reason I liked him in the first place was because I wanted to be better than Kate in some way. It took me years before I could talk to him without blushing, and it took even longer for me to get over the grudge I held against Kate. I don't know if he still has that notebook, or if he remembers those times as vividly as I do, but I'll always remember that year and a half spent gazing at Johnny's handsome face.

p.s. Since I do not have to worry about him ever reading this, I feel safe to say that Johnny is in fact a kid by the name of Brennan McEwan. I heard that he wrote a story about me too (probably about how I STALKED him practically), but sadly, he didn't have the opportunity to share it.