Is that a thing?

All throughout my life, I have loved stories.  Stories in books, stories around campfires, stories that I listened to as my parents and their friends tossed them back and forth to each other as they played cards.  I am fortunate enough to have a set of parents that are also book lovers, so as a kid, I was allowed to stay up as late as I wanted, as long as I was in bed with a book.  I had a little red reading lamp that clipped onto my bedpost.  After an hour or so of reading, that little metal lamp would get SO hot that I could melt things on it.  Don't ask me how I know this. Lets just say, that even now, when I lay down in my bed to read a book, I can still smell melting crayons.   

As I mentioned before, I come by my love of stories and storytelling quite honestly.  Many memories of my parents are of them with their noses in books.  I don't mean this in a bad way.  I have memories of them laying in bed together on any given day, mom with the covers pulled up to her chin (she was always cold) and her battered romance novel two inches from her nose. Every minute or two, she would lick a finger to turn the water damaged pages. Dad would lay diagonal across the bed on his stomach, his big body dominating the space.  He would fold a pillow up under his chest and hover over his book on his elbows, perhaps subconsciously hiding the fact that his book of choice was also a battered romance novel.  

My mother, who my sisters and I have nicknamed "Mini Mom", has always been the true storyteller of our family.  As small as she may be, when she gets into telling one of her famous stories, she might as well be 10 feet tall.  Her eyes light up and her hands wave around, her voice rising and falling, capturing the attention of every ear in the room.  I've seen this happen on numerous occasions, with varying degrees of embarrassment.  

Not surprisingly, I also find joy in telling a story or two.  This started at a young age for me.  Some less generous people might call it lying, but I prefer to think of my childhood "stories" as just that. Stories told mainly to capture the attention of my friends, teachers, and parents.  Perhaps the desire to do so is part of the "Hey! Look at me!" syndrome so many of us middle children have.  And boy, oh boy, did I have it!!  I was the third of four kids.  My brother Jake and I were stuck in the middle of the pack, however, he had the distinction of being the only boy.  So while my older sister was busy breaking my parents in and getting their attention that way and my younger sister was busy getting to be the cute, funny baby of the family, I was there in the middle, wondering what did I get to be?! So, I told stories.  Big ones.  

When I was a second grader, my school developed what they called a "spiral classroom" for each grade.  This new class was to consist of the struggling 3rd graders and the excelling 2nd graders. Well, my perfectly average 2nd grade self wanted to be in the special smart kid class so bad!  If I couldn't be the oldest one, or the youngest one, or the BOY, well, I could damn sure be the SMART one! Sadly, after the smart kid selection had been made, I remained in my perfectly boring old average classroom.  That was just not going to work for me.  So, I went home and told my parents, "Guess what?!  I got picked for the smart kid class!"  I can't remember what all I told them, but whatever it was, it must have been legit because my parents went on for weeks believing that I had switched classes. My plan had worked.  I was the SMART one.  HA!  Well, as smart as I now was, I had failed to take one thing into consideration... Parent Teacher Conference.  I was only 7 years old, but I remember that night very, very clearly.  I remember standing in the yellow tiled hallway with my parents as they stood waiting to get in to the wrong classroom... to see the wrong teacher.  I remember the panic I felt as the line grew shorter.  I began to tug on my Dad's hand, trying to pull him out of the line, "Daddy!  Dad!  I have to tell you something."  As usual, he shot me the "Shut your mouth" look and continued to watch my mother chat up everyone around her as they waited their turn.  I remember hanging my head as I walked behind my parents into the wrong classroom to talk to the wrong teacher.  I watched my parents fold themselves into the tiny child size chairs.  Well, I watched my huge father fold himself into the chairs.  The kiddie chairs fit my mother quite nicely.  The teacher, Mrs. Morgan, had taught my older brother, so she was familiar with my parents and looked a bit confused, but said hello and asked about Jake. (Of course, I thought bitterly. Everyone loved Jake.)  My mom filled her in on Jake's many accomplishments, and then said, "Well, we're here to talk about Annie."  Mrs. Morgan raised her eyebrows, "Annie?"  "Well, yes." my Mom said.  "Annie. She is in your class."  I managed to watch long enough to see the look of bewilderment on Mrs. Morgan's face before my eyes dropped to my feet and my insides curdled like a glass of milk left in the sun. I felt, rather than saw, three pairs of eyes slowly swivel in my direction.  I don't remember anything after that.  I think I passed out.

Another one of my favorites occurred when I was in the first grade. A classmate of mine had recently suffered through the divorce of her parents. Her Dad moved away, but she was able to go visit him on the weekends and do all kinds of fun stuff.  She also got to leave class and go to the counselor's office, which was super cool with neat chairs and lots of toys.  So, me being me, I told my teacher that MY parents had just got a divorce too.  Now, I'm around young kids a lot.  I know they just come out with random stories all of the time. This is how I know that I must have been REALLY good, because my teacher believed me.  I told her all about my Dad getting his own apartment (I had always wanted to live in an apartment.) and how my brother and I had moved in with him, but we visited my sisters and my mom and the weekends.  I can't remember how long I kept this "story" going, but I do remember the day it came to a screeching halt.  That would be the day my Mom came to eat lunch with me at school.  Like most young kids, I had the attention span of a goldfish, so when she walked into the cafeteria I was excited to see her.... until I saw my teacher get up to go talk to her.  Only then did I remember that I had recently divorced my Mother and went to live with my Dad.  Oh, God.  I watched my teacher talking to my mom across the room, a look of concern on her face.  My eyes were locked on my mother. She looked confused at first, but then then I saw her realize what I had done... I tried to shrink away under the lunch table.  Even from my place among the untied shoelaces and squished french fries, I felt the the two sets of eyes slowly swivel in my direction.  

Stories... lies... call them what you want.  I've always liked to tell them.  I still do.  Now, though, I most enjoy writing them.  I'm not a "writer", in the sense that I have all of these stories running through my head and I just have to put them down on paper, but I do like to take everyday situations and add my twist to them before sharing those little stories with others, hoping to make someone laugh or smile for a moment.  What kind of writing is that?  Is that a "thing"? If so, that's what I want to be when I grow up.