Mama Kat has a writer’s workshop, and one of the questions from this week was just begging to be answered. “Tell us about something you punched”, she said, and that is definitely something I can do.
This isn’t my memory; it’s more my mom’s. But I’m sure you all have memories of things that your parents told you so often that you might as well have been there, it’s so ingrained into your psyche.
I was there, as a matter of fact, I was just young enough that the memory isn’t. So, just assume that anything I write here is half assumption, half recollection of ‘the story’, and a dash of timey wimey wibbly wobbly creative allowance.
When I was growing up, my mother was friends with a woman who had a son the same age as me. We spent a lot of time over at their house, or with them over at our house. It sounds ideal, doesn’t it?
I hated him. HATED. He was mean – he followed me around for hours, poking me in the back. That’s what he did every time we were together at that stage of our relationship. My mom and his just shrugged it off as ‘things kids do to each other’… possibly as a life-lesson to me, possibly because they really just wanted five minutes in which to have an adult conversation that doesn’t revolve around poop, sleep deprivation or children in general, so please just handle this yourself and stop tattling!
So I handled it. One day, as he was following me around, poke, poke, poke-ing, I had enough. I had reached my limit. Enough was enough.
I punched him in the face. Hard. My mom says he landed on his ass, big blue eyes wide with shock (oh yes, I did this in front of our parents) and then burst into tears. He ran, sobbing, to his mom, demanding that I get punished. She suggested that he think of this moment next time he was considering harassing me. Talk about life lessons!
I spent a good half of my childhood playing with Evan. We had sleepovers, adventures in the backyard, and epic lego-filled rainy days. He and I played with Barbies together, and with J.I.Joe, Batman and all the rest of the action figures. I’m pretty sure he’s the one who tried to teach me to pee standing up (another ‘from parents’ story). Our parents were worried that they’d have to explain to us why we had to stop sharing a bed at sleepovers, though at about that time cooties and school friends and growing up all came into play and we drifted apart, and went our separate ways in life.
I think we got along so well because we knew each others’ boundaries.