Working with kids everyday reminds me what it was like to be a kid myself.
I often wonder how much they will remember of what they say (Zoe, is your hair a wig? You smell like my Pop), or do (fart while sitting on my lap/ throwing a croquet mallet at my head) .
Yesterday while out for coffee with my mum, we realised that the sales girl in the nearby shop was someone I’d gone to school with, or, as my mum pointed out dryly, someone who was screeching at the top of her lungs that Freddy Kruger was going to “get” her at my 10th Birthday slumber party.
That seemed to set mum off on another tangent of how ill-behaved I was as a child and bitterly dredged up the following stories. Damn you Tiffany Dawn Crystal* and your screechy voice! Damn you to hell!
*not her real name
The time I broke my mum’s $2000 bed
I still maintain this was an accident. Just want to put that out there. I was fighting with my brother (common theme) and was in the middle of chasing him around Mum’s brand new, mahogany four poster bed complete with Laura Ashely bed linen.
I fully intended to give him a good pummelling. The reason is unclear all these years later but no doubt he deserved it. He was cheeky with a smart mouth. He dived under the bed for protection, and I, not blessed with grace or agility, tripped over our toddler brother who was crawling on the bedroom floor and crashed down like a sack of spuds on mums bed, crushing my stupid brother who was of course, underneath.
The bed was stuffed: slats were broken, the posts came down, basically I was fucked. Total chaos ensued. Mum was livid and punished us by newspapering the tv like a giant papier-mâché so we couldn’t watch Home & Away. Hardcore shit. Jokes on mum though: we made a little hole in the newspaper to see through. Bad asses.