Problem Child

My mother said I was absolutely the worst child anyone could ever bring into this world.

"One of us is leaving this world and it isn't going to be me."

By the age of 3, I had evolved into this selfish, misanthropic wench refusing to take orders from anyone.

So mother ordered me to clean my room. "No,"I quickly told her. For some strange reason, she believed locking me in a chamber was going to teach me a lesson.

This was simply ludicrous to me. "Why should I listen to anything she says?"

I unlocked the door and strutted into the living room where my mom was watching TV. She watched me with mere concentration as I pranced directly in front of the television set. I walked with a kind of saunter as if I didn't have a care in the world.

While focusing in on her face, I pulled my pants down, squatted and took a shit right there on her living room carpet.

Appalled, outraged, and uneasy, my mom just about had enough, and it was that very moment, she believed she was going to jail for the murder of her first born.

She then sent me to the kitchen and told me to sit down while she baked a cake for my father's birthday.

I soon grew restless observing my mom as she mixed up ingredients in my favorite red bowl. I felt as if I should be doing something. I was missing out on all the action.

The doorbell rang! "Stay put," said my mom. "I'll be right back so don't touch ANYTHING."

This should be easy I thought. 3 or 4 minutes had gone by and I was starting to get itchy feet.

"That cake mix sure does smell good, and it looks good too, sitting in that bowl all messy and stuff."

I unhesitatingly dipped my finger into the bowl just to get a taste. What's one taste going to hurt; she will never know.

Before I knew it, I was dipping my fingers into the bowl and onto my scalp. It was cool and refreshing.

"My mom shouldn't mind this at all. What harm could anything to do my hair if it smelt this good?"

"You're nothing but a damn problem child!"

"That's what you are!"

"You need a playmate!"

"Oh lord, I knew I should've had another child right after you"

By the time she delivered that last line, the cake mix had deeply sunk into my scalp.

I mean it was everywhere. It looked as if someone had dropped an entire box of baking soda onto my head.

Infuriated, mommy dearest did what she knew best: She beat me!

She beat me all day long. Whenever she was reminded of cake mix or dog shit, I awoke to the sounds of belt straps working over my back. By the end of the day, red thick welts began to form all over my body.

By the time my father arrived, I had given up. I was already packing my things. Well things I believed would protect me from the dark and lonely world: A pickle cheese sandwich and my Flo Jo Barbie doll with the long pink finger nails.

In retrospect, I don't know which was more disturbing: The fact that I considered running away at such a young age or the idea of my mom allowing me to run away at a such a young age.

My mom still recounts those stories with me saying I was the problem child of the century, the worst child anyone could ever bring into this world.

But at least I was HER problem child, and no matter how much of a pain in the ass I was, nothing was ever going to keep us apart.