Case study number 001- Drunk Teething Baby

     A few weeks ago, I spoke about the advantages of being the oldest child, but there are also many drawbacks.
     Up until this point, there have only been 2 adults living in the house. Two young adults who would learn from the results formed by you, case study number 001, just how to cohabitate with a small child.

     They would learn that, all though they were mobile and able to get from point A to point B, case studies at a young age would not be able to follow and would need to be assisted by the young researchers. My parental researchers realized this after they locked me in the back seat of a car with the keys a few days after I was born.
     They would learn that all though the responsibility was great, it was okay to allow the case study, once mobile and has some years in the research lab, to go out with other case studies in recreation. I was to be in the house when the street light came on as a child and I had a curfew that was strictly enforced. By the time case study number 003 came around they were so tired they had no idea where she was half the time.
     As time would go on and they took on more case studies, it would become easier but that first one... Case study number 001 would have to go through some issues both mentally and physically. No example is better equipped for this blog than the first and only time I was drunk.

     Now in my family, on both sides, there are a lot of home remedies and beliefs.
    One summer I went to my grandmother's house, and I got a cold so she gave me home made cold medicine and told me to go right to bed because I would get sleepy. I barely made it to the bed before I passed out for several hours. I don't know all that was in that medicine but one of the main ingredients was not made for a preteen's consumption.

     So when I was a teething baby my parents were at a loss on how to help me. So they went to the researchers that had more experience on case studies than they did their parents.
    My grandmother advised my father to give me some bourbon, and knowing that she had raised 5 children on her own he asked no questions.
    So, at six months old, my father gave me a shot of bourbon to sooth the pain of my protruding teeth. Only to find out later that he was to rub some bourbon on my gums.
What happens to a drunken baby? Are they fun to be around? I mean, I assume that this isn't the norm for most families.

    As in most instances in my life, I didn't find out about this until I was at least 18 years old. Here I had gone my whole life thinking I had never had a drink (aside from relatives convincing me to try a sip at a young age and the special cold medicine from grandma) much less been drunk. I come from a very Christian family, it hadn’t once occurred to me to ask my parents if they got me plastered before I could walk.
     So after celebrating with Dad I was told I passed out.
     Now came the time for my parents to put their research into action. My protectors, my guardians, looked at their poor drunk baby and decided that the best possible outcome was to have me "just sleep it off".

    So I did... for 16 hours! Waking up with what I assume was a major baby hang over.
    So was my life as case study number 001, trial and error. There may have been some physiological damage, but over all I'm relatively normal. Payback has come with all the times I have told this story. Love you Parental Researchers!
-Amber

Sick Day

     So post number three what story do I tell? I am feeling pretty gross today. I want to get in my bed and live there like Charlie's Grandpa from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. I don't get sick very often and that's great now as a grown adult but was not so great as a kid. If I wanted to stay home and take part in the greatness that was Price is Right and all shows Cartoon Network, back where good quality cartoons could be played almost 24/7, then I had to fake it.

     Now I know it's not the right thing to do, and I don't promote lying but I was a kid who saw an opportunity and would take advantage of it when I could.
     The only thing is I tried to take advantage a lot, like a lot a lot. So much so, if I was actually as sick as when I said I was, I'd definitely have been hospitalized.
    I would perform my heart out, groaning grabbing the wall for support as I hobbled out of room. Looking at my mother with big glassy eyes as I croaked in my weakest voice, "Mommy, I think I am sick."  You always had to say mommy, it signaled her motherly brain to help her offspring in need.

    Like I said before, my mom is a hard worker and she didn't support the idea of staying home just to stay home. So she followed it with, "Have you checked your temperature?"

     This is what had me lose many battles. I would try to think hot thoughts deserts, beaches, and so forth. Once a friend told me, that her sister put the thermometer on a light bulb to raise her temperature. Not only did it not work for me but I broke the thermometer when my temperature stuck at like 900 degrees.
 
      So when the thermometer let me down again, mom would say, "You are going to school".
But then my fake illness would take a turn for the worse. With the prospect of school, I had now come to meet death's door. Moaning, groaning, and crying until mom got mad or gave in, it was hardly the latter.

     But I was a stubborn child, and I would go to school and put on an equally dazzling performance for the nurse who was at first big fan but soon caught on too.

     So, much like the Boy who Cried Wolf I too had to pay for my wicked ways.
    One day in fourth grade I woke up completely miserable. The phrase 'I feel like I have been hit by a truck' was made for me that day. Not only did the driver hit me but had a personal vendetta and backed up and tried again.

     I hobbled out of my room just as before, and followed the script "I'm sick." "Do you have a temperature?"
    I weakly made it to the bathroom cabinet knowing this time the thermometer would work in my favor. I was convinced that I had contracted some weird exotic avian flu and my temperature would be off the charts but no, it was hardly above average.

     So I pleaded with my mom weakly but she shot me down frustrated with my most recent attempts from less than a few weeks before and demanded that I get ready for school.
I used as much energy as I could muster as I went to spend my final hours with my class mates. I looked around my room, should I write a will? Stacy and Paula obviously couldn't have my toys; I would give them to my best friend Sam or be buried with them.
    I wasn't mad at my mother, I felt sorry for her, she would be so sad when she received the news that her eldest child had died of the exotic avian flu at school. "If only I would have let her stay home and watch Price is Right." She would cry to TV reporters, but there would be no way for me to comfort her since I was now walking with Jesus.

    As I walked to the bus stop, I would pray if I could just vomit. (Being as I'm speaking about being sick for most of this blog I don't want to write vomit continuously so from now on vomit will be referred to as tossing cookies. Paints a better picture I think.)

    So any way, if I could just toss my cookies, but I've always had a strong stomach and a tight hold to my cookies. Cookies being tossed shows all those around you just how you are feeling, but like my temperature my cookies were not working in my favor.

    I went to school and pleaded with my teacher to let me go to the nurse. She too had been versed in my ways and would only let me go at bathroom break.

    So time had passed and now I was sure my temperature had rose. I went to the nurses office who probably did all she could to contain her eye roll.
    I waited patiently for the thermometer to redeem itself, ours at home had to be broken but these were disposable old school ones with the red stuff inside they were legit.
   "It's normal Amber; you need to go back to class." She said.

    With teary eyes and a saddened heart, I walked the long road back to my class. How could I not be sick, I had the exotic avian flu, I had no time for this. I needed to live life to its fullest in my limited time I had left. There was nothing I could do; the "man" was working against me.

   I walked into my class where my teacher was lecturing. I met the eyes of a few of my classmates who were hopeful for me. There is an equal amount of joy and envy when your fellow inmates, I mean classmates get to go home. But I could only shake my head lightly, in my injustice.

    I sat at my desk, how did I get back to my comfy bed?  How would I be freed from this prison?
My teacher was now standing in front of me talking about something, I'm sure it was relevant when it hit me… my cookies were ready to fly.

     I am not an extrovert at all, drawing attention to myself was the last thing I wanted, but I also didn't want to share with my class my cookie tossing abilities. So I quietly at first tried to get her attention
"Umm, excuse me."
 Nothing.
"Excuse me."
Again nothing, but I'm sure she heard me. I raised my hand.
"Yes, Amber?" She said, I could hear the annoyance rising in her voice.
"May I go to the bathroom, please?" I said in my most polite voice.
"Amber, we just went to the bathroom."
"I know, but I went to the nurse’s office. I think I'm going to be sick."
Now she could not hide her irritation, "You are fine Amber; you are not going to be sick."
I was, much like love when you know you know…you know. But how was I going to convince her? My window was closing the cookies they were a-rumblin.
I quietly freaked out, could I run past her? I'm not one to fight the power what if she chased me? What if she didn't, how would she know that the cookies had been tossed?

     There was no more time to think something had to be done, and quickly. With the teacher still standing in front of me, I ran to the trash can.
    And uproariously with great force I tossed my cookies. I tossed them as if it was confetti in a parade and I was the grand marshal. I tossed them like I was professional cookie-tosser Olympian and I was determined for the gold.

    Coincidently, I also had a big audience of fourth graders who in disgust cried "Ew!" in unison.
But I didn't care I turned to my teacher and with the mostly satisfied weak smile I said, "I told you I was sick!"
When my mom came to pick me up from school, I walked proudly out to the car for I was untouchable. I was the sick fourth grader with exotic avian flu and had placed gold and cookie tossing.
-Amber

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A Trip to McDonalds

    When you are the eldest sibling, a responsibility is placed on your shoulders, to help guide and lead the younger offspring into productive members of society.
    They too, trust you and depend on you to help mold their plyable minds to be just like you.
    As the eldest of three girls, all I have to say is, my poor sisters. I have story after story where I would use my creativity as an outlet to just torment them for no other reason than because I could.
     Stacy always had it bad, next in line and three years apart, Stacy and I would fight, and was a constant target for my abuse.
     My mother tells the story of how just a few days out of the hospital, Mom was changing Stacy's diaper with me right by her side when she had a phone call. Now these are the days before cordless phones and she had to step out of the room for just a moment, only to come back and see Stacy coated in baby powder and the empty container placed in my hands.
    Fast forward two years, Stacy now a toddler and my mom almost full term with our youngest sister Paula and completely miserable and exhausted.
      My mom who, I believe, to this day is  part of a social experiement to see how long a human can work before being institutionalized, and preparing to give birth soon. She was a super hero by all rights.
    She had just recently cleaned the house for the 15 minutes before Stacy and I trashed it like a couple of rock stars in a 5 star hotel. And was in the mood for a much needed rest. So she placed a lawn chair on the front lawn, and had the keys in the ignition of our station wagon, the vehicle of choice for most of my childhood, and listened to music as we played in the yard.
    I asked if I could play house in the car with Stacy, and in my mother's half comatose state she agreed, I believe if only for the brief moment of peace and quiet.
    So, I corralled my 2 year old sister into her car seat, to which she happily agreed. Obivously as the older sister she should be completely safe in my care.
     I went around to the driver seat and began to mimick my mother. I would turn the wheel back and forth and say the key phrases that all adults would use to insure the car ride went properly.
     "Don't think I won't come back there!" " Have you ever heard of a turn signal?!" "If you say mom one more time..."

     "Where should we go?" I finally asked Stacy knowing her broken toddler response would be the same as mine.
    "McDonald's!" We would yell in unision. McDonald's was the tangiable Disney land for us lower class children growing up in Indiana. The happiest place of Earth in the 90's where you could get french fries, toys with your meal, and play in the ball pit. The ball pit filled with plastic balls and possible urine from the other children before you.

Something children of today with their nutritional happy meals and ball pit free McDonald's will never get to experience.
    So I began our imaginary treck but became bored with the limited left and right turns I could make with the steering wheel, and decided to take another page from my mom's book and use the lever on the side of the wheel, moving it all the way over to little "N".
     I should take the time, in this part of my story, to make you readers aware that our house at the time sat on a hilltop. Our driveway consisted of two concrete runways for the tires, leading up to the side of our house.
    How impressed Stacy must have been by her big sister who was able to get the car to actually move just like our parents as we began to desend down our driveway.
    My mom who had been resting peacefully up until this point in her lawn chair, looked up to see her two daughters heading out on their very first road trip together.
   She bolted out of her chair and with my almost fully formed fetus sister Paula in tow came waddling/ running after us.
    I panicked. I was not prepared for this as a newly self proclaimed adult. Stacy also sensing my distress begin to cry.
    Mom waddling side to side screamed, "HIT THE BRAKE, HIT THE BRAKE!"

    To which I too screamed in reply, "WHAT'S A BREAK?!"
    We were down now in the street a car, only a few feet behind us. As mom had finally caught up with us.
    "It's the one on the left, hit the pedal on the left!" She yelled over Stacy's wailing in the back seat.
    I slammed down on the brake as hard as I could, just half a second before hitting our neighbors car.
    I scrambled out of the car and back up the hill, prolonging the pain that would soon meet my back side, and watched as my mother effortlessly drove the car back in place all the while never breaking her death stare with me.
    Allthough I had placed all 3 of our lives in danger, one of whom had not made it out of the womb, and the punishment was not something I would look back on with cherished memories. I can look back fondly on the first time I drove, and had quite a story for school the next day.

-Amber

The Modest Amazon: or female line backer

     What is a great blog name? In doing my research, I knew this was a vital detail in making a blog. It needed to be something eye catching, something to draw readers in.

     The experts said the same thing, I needed a theme and I needed to use that theme to come up with a catchy blog name. This is great advice but, it doesn't work for me.

     My theme: Me. Write what you know right? I just wanted to place to express myself and share entertaining stories. So what about the name? If my theme is me what do I call my blog?

     Like most little girls growing up in late 80's early 90's if asked who my favorite super hero was, without hesitation I would say Wonder Woman. For two very important reasons: first, she was the only female super hero I knew existed, but more importantly, I owned a pair of her underoos and had to in turn support her.

     As I grew older I learned that Wonder Woman and I had more in common than our under garments. She was a six feet tall Amazon. An Amazon stood, on average, about six foot two.

     At 6'2" I am also built like an Amazon, or a bear, or a female line-backer. I've always been big and tall. In preschool I was 4'11". In fourth grade I was 5'11", I know this because I remember thinking what comes next 5'12'? 

    A larger than average lady, I could be an Amazon. Upon further research I found out that this could be where our similarities end. Amazon's were female warriors from Greek mythology, who were usually depicted with very little clothing.

    I don't consider myself a warrior. Warriors don't cry when someone dies in the book they're reading. They don't turn into a pile of mush from cute babies or pictures of otters. I've never saw wonder woman knitting. All though she should, maybe make herself a shawl or something. She has got to be cold.

   In the typical sense of the word, I don't consider myself a warrior. I don't see myself, going into battle any time soon but, for those I love? I would protect them any way I know how. I would be terrified but if they needed me to I would be there in a heartbeat.

     So am I an Amazon, no. I'm no female warrior, but will I fight for the things I love? Absolutely! All while wearing an appropriate amount of clothing. Hence the name The Modest Amazon. 

   Don't worry they'll get better

-Amber