Home > Bitching, My Sister, Ohio, Traumatic Childhood > The Time I Got Stitches

The Time I Got Stitches

October 26, 2011 Leave a comment Go to comments


Oddly enough, I’ve never broken a bone in my life, and I’ve only ever gotten stitches once. This means I had a very boring childhood where I played no organized sports and climbed very few trees. Either that or I’m secretly incredibly agile.

I still remember pretty vividly the circumstances surrounding my stitches. I was six years old, and was attending both preschool and kindergarten. My parents sent me to a Montessori preschool starting at age three since my mom worked, and by the time I was six, I was going to preschool in the morning, then taking a bus to my public school kindergarten in the afternoon. Though let me tell you, going to Montessori before being thrust into public school is not a great idea. I had learned how to read very early, and had learned multiplication and division in preschool. Kindergarten was just an afternoon vacation at that point since they were teaching us the alphabet and how to count to ten. Sadly, I forgot everything I learned in preschool by first grade, and any advantage I once had vanished.

Er, sorry, nothing like going on a tangent during paragraph two of a blog post.

Anyway, at this age I followed my 11-year-old sister around everywhere. I wanted to do what she did, and I tried hang out with all her friends. She was obviously extremely against this, and would lock me out of her room on a daily basis. One of the games she and her friends liked to play was essentially water-free Slip ‘n Slide. We had a long wooden hallway that led to our rooms, and if you got a running start with a blanket, you could slide all the way down the hallway. I wanted to participate more than anything, but was told that I was too little.

After lots of wheedling and whining, I finally got my sister to agree to give me a shot at the hallway. But this moment to prove myself was provided under one condition – I had to use the baby blanket I grew up with rather than one of the larger comforters that everyone else used. Undeterred, I took a running start, then launched myself into the air with my blanket clutched to my stomach.

I landed squarely on my chin, and slid for several feet, smearing blood all down the hallway. I sat up at the end, stunned, and looked down at the blood dribbling down my hands and blanket.

Then the tears and howling began.

I even remember the coat I wore as my parents rushed me to the ER – it was pink with a little puffball scarf. I remember being placed on a table in the ER with bright lights shining on me, and after a brief amount of tugging in my chin area, I was given a sticker of a pink bear that said “I’m BEARY brave!” Even at that age, I disliked the bad pun.

My sister was later yelled at for letting me do something so stupid. I still have a scar on the bottom of my chin, but am otherwise unscathed.

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