The following story is a completely true tale of my childhood. And because I adore Lindsay and her blog, Happy or Hungry, I asked her to illustrate it for me. Enjoy. She’s awesome.
On to the story.
I’ve had a scar on my forehead since I was three. It doesn’t bother me, cause the story of how I got it is just too entertaining to not recount every time someone asks about it.
I’m like a lanky blonde Harry Potter.
I’ll set the scene. I was three years old. My parents were in Atlantic City doing the things you do in Atlantic City, and my sister, Amy, who was fifteen at the time, was “babysitting” me (this was the kind of babysitting when she’s not old enough to have me overnight alone, so we had an older lady neighbor babysitting, too).
Amy always was the best sister ever. She let me eat brownie batter out of the bowl and talk on the phone with her boyfriend. So. Exhilarating. I was punchy and w-i-r-e-d.
Somehow, in the middle of my hyperactive shenanigans, my face made contact with the corner of the piano bench.
I ended up on the floor, and my sister hung up the phone and came running over to me. Since she figured I bumped my head, she picked me up and held me, patting my back.
Then Amy felt a nice warm stream go down her back.
What up, three year old with a bleeding head?
At this point, I’m bleeding from the noggin, my eyes are rolled in the back of my head, and I’m not responding. Amy panicked and dialed 911 and called my aunt and uncle to come over ASAP.
As my aunt and uncle arrived, I was evidently delirious. I was carried to the ambulance in my driveway and promised McDonalds if I was a good girl.
That’s a 10-4, Aunt Linnie. I’ll do whatever you want for the promise of late-night Mickey D’s.
[That same bribery works on me to this day, by the way. I like medium fries and sweet and sour sauce.]
So now, Amy’s in the back of the ambulance with me while my aunt rides in the front seat. Amy’s sobbing as the attendant attempts to check my vitals and make conversation with the bloody three year old.
“How old are you?”
“What’s your name?”
I’m told I owned a stuffed bear I had named Humphrey. I’m still not sure why I chose to assumed his identity that night.
Once we got to the hospital, the doctor jovially told me he needed to stitch me up. He told me it would be really fun if I sang my favorite song. There’s no doubt he was expecting a nice rendition of “Small World” or “Mary Had a Little Lamb.”
What came out of my mouth?
“… and ruined your black tie affair….”
It’s true. The first song I ever learned. By homeboy Garth Brooks. This isn’t normal for growing up in the South Jersey suburbs.
The entire hospital wing was alight with the sound of my voice (a slight resemblance to the mixture between Fergie and Jesus).
Cause it’s normal for a three year old to be singing about whiskey drowning her blues away.
It’s shocking my stitches look as good as they do with what that poor doctor had to endure.
But the whole night was worth it. Ya know why?
Our local McDonald’s was graced with the presence of a bloodied-shirt fifteen year old, two perplexed adults, and a hyper, stitched-up three year old.
I told you the scar was worth it.