Sticky Masterpieces and Sassy Smirks

I may have been a holy terror when I was a tot. At least that is what I was told.

Supposedly, I poured an entire bottle of maple syrup on the kitchen counters and floor, which drove my mother to tears. Mom said on another occasion I emptied a bag of brown sugar on the floor, which she attempted to vacuum but quickly found the sticky mess seemed to caramelize in the process. Perhaps I was trying to express myself as an artist.

Then along came my baby sister, Wendy, the precious little angel. Pshht. Whatever.

When I was just two years old, my mom took my sister and me to Portage la Prairie, Manitoba, to visit her parents. Wendy was an infant, lying on a small blanket on the living room floor. Mom stepped out of the room, and Papa claimed I walked up to her and kicked her in the head. Why would I inflict pain on my sweet baby sister? Even though I sometimes caused my mom to shut herself in her bedroom to cry, she still could not believe I would do such a thing.

Not long after our trip to Manitoba, I gave her more reason to doubt my innocence. A woman from our church stopped by to visit. Apparently, I entertained myself by climbing up the stairs, yelling, “Shit!” as I pounded on each step. Now that I can believe. Sometimes we just need a way to release tension. The fact that I was only a toddler merely indicates I was advanced for my age. Am I right?

So, yes, I was occasionally ornery as a child. I do not recall much of the who, what, when, and where, but I know I spent many times with my nose on the wall. Dad would curl up a small piece of tape, place it on the wall, and tell me to keep my nose on it. Standing still was punishment for me.

Being close in age, Wendy and I had many cat fights. She had killer fingernails that she would dig into my forearms in defense. When we fought like that, our dad would hand us each a rolled-up newspaper and say, “If you want to fight, go ahead—hit each other.” But we would quickly say, “Nooooo. I don’t want to hurt my sissy.” Smart move, Dad.

By the time I was in kindergarten, my behavior had improved, but I must have needed one last hurrah. I found a fun and creative way to achieve it. Picture this: sticky wall walkers made not of rubber but rather of processed cheese. I do not know what compelled me to give it a try, but I was amused and amazed as I flung slabs of cheese at my lavender-painted bedroom wall. Some pieces slid downward; some stayed put; yet others I smeared, leaving a horrible, lumpy, cheesy texture. I do not know how much time passed before my parents discovered my artwork, but it was long enough that the cheese solidified and could not easily be removed.

My mom kept her cool but not for long. She confronted me at dinner time, and simply asked, “Why did you smear cheese on your bedroom wall?”

With a smirk on my face, I smugly replied, “Because I wanted to.”

Mom could have smacked me. I deserved it. Instead, she picked up a handful of spaghetti and smeared it in my face. I cried, “Why did you do that?!”

She said, “Because I wanted to.” Touché, Mom. That may have been all she needed to knock some sense into me

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