My belief in Santa was cut short at the ripe old age of 6. It was just a few days before Christmas, and my older sister thought she was doing her baby sister a service by ‘enlightening’ me. Tears were shed. Some by me but most by my mother. My sister was punished for her act of ‘betrayal’ as my mother tried to keep the ‘magic of the season’ intact for her littlest one…her baby. The trauma for me was less traumatic with the buffer of the promise that someone, would be bringing me presents. Skinny, fat, bearded or hairless…I wasn’t prejudiced. I just wanted to rip open some sweet, sweet packages.
My belief in Santa might have been short lived but there were other childhood myths which I subscribed to as well. These were harder to let go of.
My family’s state of the art doo-doo brown refrigerator made it’s own candy!
I swore I’d take this to my grave but oh well…
Our 1980’s fridge was equipped with an ice maker but my mother never used it. Ice was available via ice trays. The actual ice maker was used as a storage unit for chocolate chips. They were just always there waiting in the bin, so I naturally assumed that they were being manufactured there. The wealth of chocolate made me feel rich, and I bragged to many friends about our ‘special chocolate chip maker’. I remember them looking at me like I was crazy or putting on heirs but was perplexed by their reactions. I would make it in to my teens before realizing that the ice maker was just a stupid ice maker.
Tuna fish sandwiches are made of fish???
I admittedly had a Jessica Simpson/Chicken of the sea moment when I discovered the sandwiches I’d been enjoying were actually made of weird canned fish. Suddenly, the Raggedy Ann table where I’d enjoyed so many lunches with my mother was tainted. Upon the breaking news, Misty the Scottish Terrier was free to sap up the sandwich she’d been salivating over. I was in my 20’s before I ventured on a fish dish again. I even enjoy sushi now but still shudder at the sight of that happy cartoon tuna with a death wish. Keep your canned fish.
People have sex but parents don’t.
I have no one but myself to blame because I initiated ‘the talk’. I hadn’t stumbled in to the actual act (not enough band-aids for that) but I had come across a sex position book in my parents’ closet. I was always in there looking for stowed away presents or outfits to play dress up in.
I was sick with a cold, and slurping chicken soup that was washed down with seven up when I asked for the “sex talk”. The ‘talk’ brought my sickness to a new level.
My mother was uncharacteristically clinical in her description of ‘the act’. The whole thing just seemed so barbaric to me and I was traumatized.
Hormones and years to follow would prove that ‘barbaric’ is good. Barbaric is freaking great! It’s good for me but I still never want to picture my parents having sex. That’s what the stork is for.