As I grew up, my sense of timing improved but my flair for the dramatic remained. My over reactive tendencies in every day situations had intensified and, apparently, it was far more adorable when I was five.
Accepting punishment was no different. When I had done something wrong that required grounding, I wanted to make sure my parents knew that I was needlessly suffering at their hands.
I figured it would only be a matter of time before my mother realised what a mistake she had made. I imagined her flying into the room, fearful for my safety. I sprawled out on the floor, twisting my face into the most pathetic grimace I could muster. How sorry she would be when she saw me!
But she didn’t come into my room. Maybe dropping dead wasn’t enough. Maybe I needed to visibly suffer from some fatal disease for her to regret sending me away.
I drew all over my face with magic marker, scrawling large patches of purple across my skin. I stuck my head out the door and called down the hall to my mom.
“Mom, can you come here for a minute?”
“What do you need?”
I lowered my voice.
“All I need now is… more time.”
The exasperated sigh followed by the sound of footsteps told me she was responding to my piteous plea. I climbed into the bed and pulled the covers around my face, ready for her arrival.
My limited knowledge of diseases let me down here. My mother obviously did not believe that the purple ink smeared across my face was representative of Polio and she told me as much by walking away without saying a word. Well, screw her. I was prepared to take things to the next level.
She would regret not believing me once she was reading my last will and testament. Nothing says “take me seriously or I will die” quite like a will.
“My Baby!” she would cry. “How could I have ever doubted you? I know now that your purple exterior was, in fact, symptomatic of Polio and not just a childish ploy for attention! Oh what have I done?”
After drafting a few versions, I chose the best one and marched down the hall to the kitchen, where I smugly handed it to my mother.
To my surprise and disappointment, she did not react as I had anticipated. She laughed. A lot. At me. I was getting more and more annoyed as her laughter increased. After what felt like eternity, she regained her composure and smiled at me.
“How about you go wash the marker off your face, and then we’ll have some cake.”
And this is why she was the adult, and I was the child. She knew how to call my bluff. I was a chubby kid with a great appetite, and there was no fucking way I was going to turn down a piece of anything. Certainly not cake.
To stick to my guns and ride this thing out meant no cake, and I wasn’t above selling my virtue for baked goods. She knew that, and she used it against me.
As I made my way down the hall to wash my face, my mom called after me.
“Next time Jess, if you want me to take you seriously, don’t use scented markers. Your whole face smelled of pie.”
Duly noted.
