When I Was Your Age

We spent a few hours working in our backyard this weekend. We didn't run out of work. In fact, we are likely less than 1/4 of our way through weeding alone. We didn't run out of time. It was the one and only Saturday of our entire summer that isn't already planned. We just ran out of room in the garbage can.

We also did not run out of character-building, back-breaking, whine-inducing labor for our children. Oh, how I love to torture them. And to make the time go faster, I found myself telling them, "when I was your age stories." You know the type...walked uphill 5 miles to school, was expected to be seen and not heard...your basic childhood fables. Imagine my surprise in discovering that I had actual real-life memories for the respective ages of all four of my children! Boy did that make me feel old. So I tried to choose my most vivid memory from each of their ages. This is what I came up with.

When I was 5 years old, I couldn't wait for my very first show and tell in Mrs. Ringer's a.m. Kindergarten class. Although I was painfully shy (I swear this part is not fabricated. Ask my parents if you don't believe me.) I eagerly anticipated the chance to show the Indian-head penny that my grandfather had given to me. In our class, on show and tell day, you put your items on the show and tell table at the beginning of the day. Then, in the afternoon, after naptime...(again I'm serious...I can't believe they took this out of the Kindergarten curriculum) our teacher would call children up one at a time to take their item from the table and share it with the class. As the grand event approached, I shyly (seriously!) raised my hand and waited my turn. Mrs. Ringer called on one child and then another and then another. Finally she called on a little boy who found his way to the show and tell table and then dawdled there for several minutes, fingering this item and that. Finally, after some coaxing from the teacher, he picked up my Indian-head penny, marched to the front of the class and told everyone some fascinating story about his penny! I was filled with rage and disappointment, but when Mrs. Ringer asked me if I had something to share, I was too submissive and quiet to stand up for myself, so with tears in my eyes, I told her no. At the end of the day, I picked up my penny and took it home, so at least the villain of the lie didn't go so far as to steal my penny...just my moment. And for nearly 30 years, that little boy got away with it...but today I will finally take back my right and name names. That's right, Aaron McClelland, I know who you are! And by the way, your show and tell story was so obviously contrived...you weren't fooling anyone!

When I was 7 years old we went to visit my cousins in Utah for the summer. I have a cousin who is exactly a month older than me, and although we were always good buddies when we saw each other, there was an edge of competition that tainted our every interaction. The first day at his house, we went outside where he grabbed his bike ready to ride the half block to his grandparents' home. He asked me if I wanted to go with him. I told him I didn't have a bike. He told me I could ride his sister's bike, and then in what I interpreted was a taunting manner asked, "You know how to ride a two-wheeler don't you?" Ooh, the challenge in his tone! Well of course I told him I could ride a bike...never mind the fact that I had never up until that moment been able to ride a two-wheeler in my life. He was NOT getting the best of me. He wheeled the bike around, I climbed on...and took off down the road with an air of nonchalance...even boredom. I guess I can pinpoint my competitive streak and stubborn nature to this exchange. I rode bikes with him that whole week. The only down side was that I never got to show off to my parents, "hey, look, guys! I'm riding a bike!" because such a display would undermine my whole triumph.

When I was 9 years old, I saved the quarter my mom put into my lunch for milk money every day. Then at the end of the week when I had 5 quarters, I would walk down to the 7-11 at the end of our street and use my $1.25 to buy 3 candy bars. I don't know what part of this memory is the most disturbing...the fact that I basically stole money from my parents every day or that I walked down a busy street to a convenience store completely by myself at the age of 9.

When I was 12 years old, my mom picked me up from school early on my birthday. As a surprise, she drove me to a beauty salon to get my ears pierced. The lady at the shop showed me a basket of different stud earrings to choose from for the piercing, and I really wanted the diamond ones. However, my older sister had gotten diamond earrings when she had her ears pierced and I knew that she would somehow lord it over me if I chose them. Besides, at this age I hated having the same things as everyone else around me...I wanted my own thing...so instead I just grabbed a random pair out of the basket. They turned out to be topaz which I hated. I didn't like orange at all, but for the next 6 weeks, I wore them and swore to anyone who might question my selection how much I loved topaz. The day I could change my earrings for the first time, I took the topaz studs out and never wore them again. As I remember this, I can't really verbalize my reasoning for this life choice...I just sense that there was a feeling of self-sacrifice implicit in it somehow. Weird, huh?

Anyway, for what their worth, the stories got us through 2 hours of weeding. Now if you'll excuse me, I need to go find my college textbook on psychoanalysis. It appears I'm completely neurotic.