I was always a very precocious and lively child (at least until my sister, Princess Motormouth, started talking, but that’s another story).
According to my parents, I was never one to throw tantrums (except for my tendency to “hulk out,” which involved clenching my fists and breathing very hard á la my hero at the time, the Incredible Hulk).
My maternal grandfather, who is one of the bravest and most stubborn men I know, is terrified of insects, any and all, except for butterflies. Once, while he was talking to my uncle, I picked up a roly-poly which had rolled itself into a little ball and put it in his outstretched hand, begging him to look at it. He went on talking to my uncle for a few minutes before he realized I’d given him a bug. He went absolutely nuts for a minute, screaming and flailing, nearly falling, trying to get this tiny little bug off him. I was VERY upset with him for flinging my special roly-poly to parts unknown.
I was at my paternal grandmother’s house one time when I saw a HUGE dead bug. I immediately ran into the kitchen, jabbering to my parents and grandmother about it.
“What did it look like?” they asked, wanting to know if it was a roach or a locust or whatever.
“Like this!” I exclaimed, lying down on the floor and putting my hands and feet into the air, very much in the manner of a dead bug. I think they couldn’t reply to that for a few minutes because they were laughing so hard.
Hmmm…a lot of my stories seem to involve bugs. More stories when I think of them.
I don’t know if this counts as incredibly cute or just proves that I was incredibly stupid as a child…
When I was about four years old, my best friend in all of the world was a girl named Bethany. At the time when this story takes place, Bethany was on sort of a politeness kick. For example, rather than calling wildly to the ice cream man when his truck came through our neighborhood during the summer, she would stand demurely on the curb and wave at him. She could get pretty holier-than-thou if she thought you weren’t adhering to her ideas of polite society. Anyway, one day, our moms were driving us to a swimming lesson, and I was looking out my window up at the sun. Bethany tapped me on the shoulder, matter-of-factly informing me, “You’re not supposed to stare at the sun.” Not realizing she had meant “You’re not supposed to stare at the sun…because it will hurt your eyes” rather than “You’re not supposed to stare at the sun… because staring is impolite,” I turned back to the window and continued to look at the sun – except that now I was smiling and trying to be friendly instead of staring at it.
I had a terrible headache and splotchy vision for the remainder of the afternoon.
My father relates these two stories about me. I don’t remember doing either of these things as they both happened before I was 4.
I was about to get a whippin’. I was sent to the bedroom to “assume the position”. On the way to the bedroom the phone in the hallway rang. I picked it up and said “Our Father who art in heaven. . .” before my Dad got a chance to grab the phone from me.
Another time I went to my father and, as serious as a preacher, asked him why people drank out of glasses. He started in on one of those patent parents-trying-to-answer-their-kids-unanswerable-question modes when I stopped him.
“Because Pampers are too dry.” I said, deadpan, before throwing myself on the floor in a fit of hysterical laughter.
I slayed me even then.
My parents have often groaned as they’ve remembered their Weekly Embarrassment: Children’s Sermon at church. At the Methodist church we attended, all of the children would be called up on the stage steps and the pastor would give a lesson with the rest of the congregation looking on. Being a very outspoken child (and completely unimpressed with social graces), I nearly weekly had them sinking in their chairs and dodging eye contact from other churchgoers.
One of the more famous examples, from when I was about five or six:
The pastor, who liked using realia in his lessons, stood before us holding an unlit candle. The idea, I believe, was along the lines of “this little light of mine:” letting your light shine for Jesus, etc. He was asking, “How do you light your candle for Jesus? Do you light it by being disrespectful to your parents or fighting with your brothers and sisters? Can you light it by taking things that don’t belong to you?” blah blah blah, etc. Apparently I, growing impatient with what seemed like the OBVIOUS answer, loudly (and somewhat with annoyance) blurted, “Why don’t you just use a match?!”
My father said I wasn’t at all being smart-ass or bratty; he said I was just offering the most logical solution. Hee!
