Posted by M on Feb 1, 2009 in
Completely Biased Memories When I was a mere toddler, perhaps two or three, my parents took me swimming at their friend’s pool. Of course, it was more like trespassing than swimming, considering that their friend wasn’t home and while they had said Ann and Cliff could bring the little rascals over to play, they didn’t expect my parents to throw a regular pool party while they were gone.
In addition to trespassing, we also managed to borrow some food from their house, putting burglary on the list of criminal offenses committed by the Flood Family. Yet, I suppose we should be grateful because it very nearly became the scene of my demise.
Now, what exactly happened during that pool party which led to my very near death is somewhat debatable. Or more like, my parents believe a completely false version and my story, the true one, is often mocked and claimed to be the fiction of a creative imagination. But, as the victim of the situation, I think it’s fair to assume that my story is the most accurate.
Let me set the scene. It’s a glorious summer day. The sun is shining, my two favorite friends of my childhood, Nolen and Maureen are playing with us, and our parents are on the other side of the pool, hanging out. As I am a tiny child, I cannot swim, but I like the water so Nolen, always the gentleman, lets me push him in. Unfortunately, as I go to do just that, I lost my center of gravity and fell into the pool myself. And that was when I almost died.
I’m told I was only underwater for a few seconds. And I admit, that’s likely true. But, even today, I can still remember those few seconds. I couldn’t breathe, I was thrashing around, and of course, there was a light. In essence, I was on the brink of death.
Then Cliff and his best buddy, Kevin, hopped in the pool and scooped me out. Apparently I didn’t even cry. I’m pretty tough like that. Plus, when you’ve just seen the light and are aware that you almost died, you’re a little too shocked to cry. And then your mom offers you a snack and you go from shock to being distracted by food and you never really get around to crying.
Seventeen years after this life changing moment, I am still scarred. After that day, water and I never really saw eye to eye. Actually, I hate it. My showers last five minutes on a long day, I hate washing my hands or my face, and I still can’t swim. I prefer Beauty and the Beast over the Little Mermaid hands down. I can, however, doggy paddle. But I can’t hold my breath underwater. I guess I should be embarrassed but I’m not. Some people were just born to keep their feet on land.
(*special thanks to annie flood for inspiration)
The first week of April from Kindergarten through senior year of high school was always Springbreak. Springbreak is a legend among kids. It’s the only time of year when everyone you know goes on vacation, to somewhere warm and fun, at the same time. Teachers would go easy on the homework, parents would go easy on the rules, and the countdowns until Springbreak would start soon after Christmas.
My parents, however, did not believe in merely fun Springbreaks. Oh no, if it wasn’t educational, then by golly, we were not doing it. Let me recount to you, my loyal readers, two of our earlier trips:
1. Virginia. This was my dad’s dream trip: seven days of dead President’s houses, museums, and to top it all off: Colonial Williamsburg. Is it warm in Virginia in April? No, sir, it is not. So while all my friends came back with tans and postcards of their tropical extravaganzas, I brought them back a postcard from where Sally Hemmings and Thomas Jefferson got it on. Racy? perhaps. Better than Panama City? No.
2. Washington, D.C. I actually love Washington, D.C. now. But when I was five or six (in my old age, my memory is beginning to suffer), it was one of the worst trips ever. Not because I knew nothing about U.S. history so big statuses of Lincoln or towers like the National Monument (which, by the way, I still hold is overrated. It’s just a big tower. My brothers built more complex ones with legos) meant little. But even worse, we walked like five miles a day. Nowadays, that’s not a huge deal. But in little kid steps, that’s like a marathon. And I was a chubby little kid. So, at the pathetic age of five, I lost my chafing virginity. Just another thing to tell my therapist, I suppose.
When we got a little older, my parents got pretty tired of all our complaining. I think they could tune us out when we were wee ones, with quiet voices that are neither threatening nor insistent. But when we hit teenagehood, the three Flood kids rallied together for a change. And my parents, always the lawyers with their sneaky, conniving little ways, had us fooled.
They suggested we go to Hawaii. “Hallelujah!” said we. A real Springbreak! We’re finally sun chasers like all the other kids! We packed our swimsuits, our towels, and got ready for a week on the beach. The parents, however, must have laughed to themselves all the way over to Maui. Where we spent the week not lounging, but instead, hiking the trails of Hawaii. Gorgeous? of course. Did that mean we wanted to do that? Of course not. As the only daughter in the family, I did get the easy way out. There were several occasions where frail, poor me just couldn’t handle another hike so my Mom and I would head into town to go shopping while my brothers and my Dad were forced on hikes that were so extreme (picture no trail, just a jungle of vines) that they’re still in recovery today.
I don’t mean to mislead you. We had some amazing Springbreaks and I was truly extremely lucky growing up to be taken all over the world. It just seems to be the Flood Curse that no matter how great a vacation we plan, something always ends up awry.
When we went to the Grand Canyon once, there was the first blizzard in twenty odd years, a blizzard so intense that they shut down the Highway. Of course, Michigan natives like ourselves, didn’t really find the blizzard that bad and drove through it. However, the blizzard did mean we couldn’t actually see the Grand Canyon. But hey, that’s in the details.
My parents took us to Italy once when I was in high school. We had to switch planes in D.C., and at the last minute, the flight attendants decided there wasn’t enough overhead room for our family’s carry-ons (nevermind the 100 passengers and their giant bags already onboard). Out of all those people, my poor parents had to have their bags checked. They were promptly lost. Cliff’s was recovered a few days later, tattered and slashed, like a mugger went to town on it. Ann’s bag was never found. Foreign country with a crappy exchange rate and no luggage? Of course that would happen to us.
There’s also the issue we have with getting sick while on vacation. Whether it’s food poisoning or water poisoning or just the a random attack of dehydration, my little brother in particular manages to catch it all. In LA, he had an ear infection that was so intense my mom had to check him in to the Emergency Room. In Mexico, he drank the water and ended up so sick that he asked for us to either illegally buy him morphine or simply knock him unconscious. I was willing to do the later, but my parents were not willing to let me.
In the end, I suppose our education vacations have been remarkably more interesting than my friends and their 12 trips to Panama City. While I didn’t appreciate them growing up, there is something kind of cool about saying that you’ve seen The Tree That Owns Itself or been to more National Parks than you have beaches. At the very least, it’s a quirky little fact about us.
When I was little and complaining, my parents used to tell me that when I grew up and had a family, I could do it my way and hit the beach every April. Now that I’ve had some time to reflect, I think that I would like to torture my children the way I was tortured. After all, they’ve got to lose that chafing virginity sometime…
The search for my life’s mission began when I was a wee little child. According to my baby book, which my mother was religious about updating, I first proclaimed that when I grew up, I wanted to be ”a grandpa.” This may sound a little weird, but when I look back on it, I just think about what a smart little kid I was. My grandfathers are both retired, they both sleep whenever they want, and they both have enough money to live comfortably. Instead of my parents encouraging me to perhaps think of a more realistic way to spend my life, I think they should have been patting me on the back because even as a toddler, I knew what it meant to have it made.
After my parents told me being a grandpa wasn’t going to work out for me, I decided instead that I would be a mom. Because I was only three or four at this point, it was seen as adorable to have a little water baby to take everywhere. My first water baby was black. I thought for the longest time that my parents were trying to be really liberal and forward thinking by buying me a doll of the opposite gender, but I found out later it was just that they were all out of white babies and hey, Santa had to bring me something.
I ditched motherhood to be a ballerina. After all, even at five I knew that tutus and pink tights were way better than expelling children from my uterus. My darling mother, certainly aware of my lack of coordination (the amount of times I trip over myself per day is truly remarkable), encouraged me to pursue my dreams by signing me up for Chris’s School of Ballet and purchasing me tickets to the local theatre, where a real ballet was coming to perform. The ballet lessons didn’t go well (besides coordination, it turns out I also lack rhythm) and as for the performance, I fell asleep shortly after the curtains opened.
Since I couldn’t even stay awake to watch my future profession, I decided that ballerina Maggie was just not going to work out. I went through the other typical little girl ideals: pop star, model, fashionista, doctor, cake decorator, bookstore owner, coffee shop owner, travel agent, wnba player, teacher, etc. But, let’s be honest: the pop star thing is out, I can’t carry a tune and after ten years of piano lessons, all I can do is play the chorus of the infamous “Go Tell Aunt Rhody.” I’m too old to be a model, I don’t care enough about clothes to design or sell them, Science hates me, and cake decorators have to be able to bake–without the Sara Lee box.
When I finally reached that mystical senior year of high school, I was told it was time to narrow down my interests. After all, I had to pick a college that had a degree that would help me reach my career, which would give me a pay check, and would eventually allow me to buy my own yorkie (my first one was stolen–more on that later). I came home from school and talked to my parents, working through my options. There was big ten schools, and liberal arts schools, schools decked out in blue, schools in green, and schools in other combinations of colors that were ghastly, not flattering at all when matched to my complexion.
In the end, my dad told me not to fret. I could do whatever, then go to graduate school to do what I wanted. While the idea of going to school for longer my not please all people, I instead thought back to that little girl with the dream of being a grandfather and all the perks that come with it: naps, someone else supporting you, and no job. A student, with nothing to do but classes, is on the same level, except since I’m still young, I won’t have to worry about pills, breaking a hip, or a dwindling retirement fund.
If I could go back and talk to toddler Maggie, I would tell her not to worry: dreams do come true. Grad school, here I come.