the first 4 stories

1. Flight. We were at my grandma and grandpa's farm this one summer. I was on the swing outside and my grandpa was pushing me. I've always wanted to fly so I kept shouting, "Push faster and higher Grandpa!" I was giggling and turned my head a little and loosened my grip to see if he would do it. At that moment my grandpa gave me a huge push and I flew off the swing. I fell face first into a pile of white stones. My nose bled a little and some blood got on my grandpa's white shirt. He felt so bad...my mom took a picture(I'll try to post that). I assured my grandpa that I got to fly for a few seconds, so everything was fine. (age 3).

2. Mistaken Identity. One beautiful afternoon my mom had gone outside to water the plants in the front yard. My brother and I had been mixing all our play-do to make a color that resembled poop. We enjoyed working together to cause mischief. We had finally gotten the right color, so we made little "poops" around the house. (We had just gotten a cat a few months before). We placed the first one in the front of this chest so mom would see it right when she walked in...and she did. My brother and I thought we were so good, but my mom knew exactly what it was. I guess she had seen a lot of real poop to know the difference. She chuckled and asked us to clean it up. She found all the piles that day that we had left and we had to clean it all up. (age 5)

3. The Day that I Got Lost...Not Really. Everyday after school, I boarded a van that took me to day-care until my mom got off of work. My brother was allowed to walk home because he was old enough and could stay at home alone. So that afternoon, I waited on the shaded concrete bench as usual and boarded the blue van as usual. I arrived at the day care and immediately started to play with the other children. I remember getting in trouble that day. There was a black woman that worked there and she would tell all of us children that she would sit on us if we misbehaved (it's important to note that she was a huge black woman). I remember getting that threat that afternoon. Pretty soon it was 5:00 pm and my mom had still not come to get me. Then it was 6:00 pm. At this point, they were calling the school that my mom worked at trying to get a hold of her. No answer. Home. No answer. Mrs. Wylie (black lady that threatened she would sit on us) was very worried. I just wanted more snacks and dinner. So Mrs. Wylie packs me in the blue van and she says that we're going to go to my house and see if anything is wrong. We pull up to my street and there are cop cars everywhere and my mom is in the yard crying. We pull up and I get out of the van. I've never had such a welcoming. Apparently my mom had told me to wait on the concrete bench for her that day, not the blue van. (age 6)

4. The Need of a Medical Professional. This story is best told in person, but alas, it must be told through type. I'm very ticklish and my family has tickled me my whole life. My mom and I still get in tickle fights, as well as my brother. My brother was tickling me this one afternoon and I was laughing away. I was walking backward and eventually got really close to this corner that came out of the wall. I threw my head back and suddenly blood was everywhere...even on my favorite dress that I was wearing. I reached my hand back and saw all the blood on my hand and freaked out. My brother ran to get my mom as I screamed. In a matter of minutes my mom had picked up my favorite doll and a change of clothes and a few compresses for my head. She walked into the kitchen only to find me running in a circle singing "I need a Daaaaaaaawwwctor... I need a Daaaaaaaawwwctor." (age 7)