As my daughter careens toward her third birthday I am plagued slightly troubled by thoughts of what is yet to come. See, she is already so wilfull and mischievous and smart, and...I think you get the point. What scares me most is how similar in personality she is to me. Now that I am a mother, I have a greater appreciation for my own, and all that she endured. One might think I was hellbent on driving her over the deep end. I'm not saying I was a bad teenager, and that I got myself into major trouble. Nope, I was mellowed out (mostly) by then. I am referring to my days as a three year old...not that I remember much of them, but I cringe at some of the recounted tales.
It's 1979 and we are living in Worcester, Massachusettes (my mom's home town). My parents decided to live there for a little while, at my mom's request, to be near her family. My mom is hugely pregnant with my brother, and in no mood for my shenanigans. So she sends me out front to play (I still can't believe there was ever a time when that was okay). After an unpsecified amount of time elapses, she looks out the window to check on me. No Shannon...I wasn't Mamma then ;). Having a brief moment of panic, she goes out front for further inspection. Strewn about the sidewalk are my clothes. With much effort, she bends to retreive my articles from the sidewalk, only to find they are wet...like super soaker style. Blood pressure rising, she looks to the right. Still no Shannon. Looks to the left and there is Shannon, running naked from the waste down. She hollars calls sweetly for me to get my little butt over to her. All sugar and innocence, I come to my mom. My mom rushes me inside to put on clean pants, chastizing me all the way about not peeing in my clothes. "Shannon, when you need to go potty, you don't go in your clothes!" "Okay, momma." I say sweetly. "Can I go back outside to play now?" Of course she lets me...like any mother, she was anxious for any precious moments of peace she could muster.
For the second time, I am outside playing, mom is inside. Time passes, and reluctantly she hefts herself up to check on me. Expecting to see me galavanting down the street with the other little boys and girls, she coems to the window and stares in silent horror at the scene layed out before her. Her daughter, to whom she had told just moments before "we don't go potty in our clothes" was not in fact going potty in her clothes. Nope. Her daughter was squatting on the sidewalk right in front of the house, taking a poop. Paralyzed, my mom doesn't know what to do. Clearly she has to retreive her demon spawn angelic child, and get her into the house. Yet the thought swimming in her head is one of the neighbors saying "I didn't know you had a dog" as she is stooped over scooping the poop. Fortunately for my mother, no one saw her when she did finally go out to clean my mess. In my defense...I did not go potty in my clothes.
If this story is not enough to have me running scared over what's to come, well I need not look any further than my mom's memory of me and my escapades for further horror material.