#Scintilla, Day Four. My childhood bedroom.
I think you could probably learn a lot about me if you had a look at my childhood bedroom. I was always lucky enough to have my own space, from the little house we lived in on a street called Acoma to the bigger house on Aspen we moved to when I was a teenager, to, well, now. We won’t talk about my freshman year of college, when I had a roommate. A lovely girl, but I am just not built to share my space very well. My husband’s lucky he’s nice or else we might be those sort of people who have separate bedrooms.
I am and have always been a messy person. Okay, a slob. My mother likes to tell the story of when I was young, probably four or five, and she sent me in to excavate my bedroom. I don’t know how it happened — or how it happens now — but my room was always ankle deep in stuff. Books and toys and the important things that four or five year olds collect. I always needed a lot of supervision when I was meant to be cleaning my room because I would find an interesting book and just lose myself in it, not looking up until she came back to see how I was doing.
I think I should point out here that my mom always kept a very clean house. We cleaned the whole thing top to bottom every weekend. It’s not like I didn’t — and don’t — know how to tidy up. I just don’t see the mess.
So that day, like dozens of others, she came back in to check on me. I, of course, had done absolutely nothing. My little sister was just big enough to walk and talk. She toddled in to the room and grabbed my mother’s leg. Surveying the mess, she muttered “Well, I’ll be a son of a bitch,” she said, in that deadpan way some children have.
So that’s actually the story of how my dad got in trouble for cussing around us too much.
(So behind on Scintilla! I’m hoping to catch up over the next couple of days!)
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