It occurred to me recently that by today's standards, I'm lucky to be alive.
My parents didn't child proof the house when I was born. I'm told that before I mastered climbing stairs, I'd go down penguin style- face first on my stomach. This was a full flight of linoleum covered stairs with aluminium fastenings on the tread ends. My parents were unconcerned about this; they figured if I worked out how to do it in the first place it must work for me.
I was also graduated straight from my crib to a double bed. I suppose this is partly because my parents hate to buy things that have a limited use life, but also because putting a little kid in the very middle of a large bed means they have to work to roll out.
I fell out a couple of times, but apparently it never woke me up. I also slept with a Cabbage Patch doll (ah, yes, the 80's) who fell out of the bed far more often than I did. My mother says that when the doll's big plastic head hit the floor, it made more noise than I did but it was a long time before my parents could differentiate between the thumps.
They didn't put plastic protectors in the electrical sockets until my brother was born. When I was two years old, I tried to plug in the television in my parent's room and I don't recall if I did it backwards or upside down, but a big blue shot of electricity came out of the wall and scared the crap out of me. Hurt a little, but it wasn't bad. I wasn't stupid enough to try it again, but my parents bought the plastic things when my brother was born.
I could put on my own Band-Aids by the time I was four. Now I can't understand how I managed to get as scraped up as I did. Most of my playing outside just involved me walking around the yard and telling myself stories. I didn't have anyone to play with, and I was mortally terrified of getting dirty. Not from any girlish desire to stay clean, but because I'd probably have to take a bath or because my father had me trained to believe that clothes should pretty much enter the laundry in the same condition they came out of it, or pay the consequences.
As a result, I'm not quite painter's coverall material, but I'm not hard on clothes.
I didn't have get a bicycle until I more than outgrew my tricycle. I thought mine it was a Radio Flyer, but mine was huge compared to what they make now. That's not just nostalgia talking- the frame's hung up on our back porch (the front tire has rotted off, but the rest of it's just the same as it was 15 years ago when my Dad hung it up there) and it's big. I'd almost guess the front wheel's sixteen inches, and if you look online you don't see anything much over 12.
Anyway, I rode that thing until I was six years old and it was getting too hard to ride it and sit down. So, I got a bike for my birthday and happily rode it with training wheels on.
I guess most kids eventually learn to balance and they can ride without using the training wheels. I didn't- I was just riding the training wheels. So, my father decided to take the training wheels off. That didn't work so well.
By the time I was in third grade, I still couldn't ride the stupid thing very well. Not that it made any difference, because I wasn't allowed to ride anyplace except up our sidewalk and back, but my father was still convinced I should be able to ride. So, he took me down to the school playground and I rode around the basketball courts until I smacked face first into the iron poles holding up the hoops. (You know they *pad* those things now?)
Not that it would've made any difference in this situation, but this is also back in the days before helmets. I had a nice red streak right up the middle of my face for the next two or three days. My father thought it was hilarious because for me to manage to smack my face without coming off the bike, I had to have been going right for the pole until the very last second. He was of the opinion that I thought the pole was going to get out of the way.
Sure, even I think it's funny now, but at the time, I was pissed. I got up and marched straight home and refused to touch the thing for another year.
My father also thought it was the most hilarious thing ever to play catch with me. I've had a full size baseball glove ever since I was a little kid. Never played the sport, but always had a glove. (That's my dad, if you're going to do it, you're going to have the proper equipment.) Playing catch with me involved the ceremony of putting on the gloves, going out to the yard and my father throwing softballs at me.
It's a running joke in my family that I "catch with my face," because I can never recall having actually caught the ball when he threw it to me. If it gets anywhere near me, it hits me right in the face. Again, uproarious laughter from Dad.
My brother was instrumental in my being stung by a bumblebee millimeters away from my eye. It swelled closed for a few days. Luckily that was a summer event. I fell out of a tree and probably lightly sprained my wrist; my parents still don't know about that one. My wrist hurt for a good two or three days afterwards and I someday anticipate arthritis there, which will be a joy because it's my right wrist. I had my own pocket knife by the time I was seven, and managed to inflict scars that have only just recently become hard to find unless you know they're there.
Of course, our first family car didn't have airbags, or shoulder belts, I've eaten more than my share of raw cookie dough, my grandparent's house was full of lead paint, my school, that I walked to alone, were full of asbestos and I've eaten more dirt than I care to think about. (Dirt with Cheetos remains one of the tastes that comes back to me every now and again. Dirt and peanut butter was OK.)
Yep, I'm lucky to be alive.