It's Monday Memoir time over at Travis', even though Ian is trying to steal his day.
People often ask me, “Were you dropped on your head as a baby?” To which I replay, “That is a nonsensical question. If I was, I surely wouldn’t remember because babies have something called infantile amnesia, which prevents them from remembering things before the age of two. Just one reason most of your childhood immunizations are given before age two. Not to mention, your “mommy issues” would be a whole lot worse if they included that whole birthing process memory. And secondly, if I was dropped on my head, I would likely not remember it due to being dropped on my head. So there in lie the fallacies of your question.” And since, by that point, they had walked away long before then; I am basically talking to myself, which is always the most intelligent conversation I can get.
However, if they had ever asked if I dropped myself on my head as a child, the answer would have been, “Which time do you want to know about?”
One in particular stands out as a doozy, and probably explains why I am the way I am.
We had a train track that ran behind our house. The track was lined with trees on both sides.
Being a boy of about 9 or 10, I loved climbing trees.
However, mom always said to stay away from the train tracks.
Probably had something to do with her fears that I would become a hobo, complete with harmonica and a bundle tied to a stick, and would travel the world, instead of providing her with grandkids someday.
Might have been the “smashed by a train” thing too.
Regardless, being the obedient son that I was, I would often climb the trees along the tracks.
This particular day, mom caught me in the tree.
She came out in the yard, and yelled something to the effect of, “(insert complete full name here) get out of that tree right now before I bust your tail!”
Knowing that I was destined to have a meeting with the belt, and in my haste to get out of the tree, I lost my grip.
Down I went, a million feet, head first, and landed on a pile of railroad ties.
A normal child would have died, head split open like a jack-o-lantern the day after Halloween.
But not me. I was blessed with an unusually hard head.
I picked myself up, and stumbled up the bank and across the yard towards mom, where I nearly blacked out at her feet.
Mom, fearing she had just witnessed her child fall to his death and frightened by the sight of my 3 enormous goose eggs that sprouted up like extra heads, was too relieved to beat me.