The Dinosaur Egg

When I was in first or second grade I was digging around in the woods on the other side of the "rusty fence" (this was before the stitches incident) and I struck something. It was round, hard, smooth, and grey. I exhumed the object from the dirty and tangled root filled hole, wrapped it up in the tummy area of my shirt, climbed fearlessly over the "rusty fence" (wobbling dangerously back and forth at the top) and washed my treasure off with the hose at the back of the house behind the "big fan" (a different story).

Washing the dirt and grime off I soon realized what it was I was holding... it was a Dinosaur Egg!

I was so amazed and excited, I had just dug up a real dinosaur egg that must have survived a bajillion years since the Jurassic Age. Fearing I would break it I brought it in the house and wrapped it in a towel. I showed my parents and they really didn't seem to care much. I wasn't too surprised. When I showed it to my sister she seemed to believe me and told me to be very careful with it. Then I went to show it to my brother Austin, whose approval I wanted the most. I also wanted to show him up. He was always better than me at everything. But I was the better archaelogist. I had to be, I just dug up a dinosaur egg.



But, when I showed it to my brother he laughed in my face. He told me it wasn't a dinosaur egg and that it was just a big rock. I didn't believe him. It had to be a dinosaur egg, just look at it. Plus, it came out of the ground. Explain that!



For the next few weeks I kept my dinosaur egg coddled in its towel and slept with it next to me. I knew that it had to be kept warm or it wouldn't hatch. My brother kept telling me it was a rock.



Then one day when I was walking around the house with the dinosaur egg my brother ran up and snatched it from me. He ran outside and I chased after him as fast as my puny little legs could go. He got out to the patio outside the house, held the dinosaur egg above his head shouting "It's a rock!" and hurled it straight down at the incredibly hard and solid concrete sidewalk below. I was devastated and filled with berserker rage. Unfortunately Austin escaped into the house. Then I solemly trudged down the stairs to see if somehow it miraculously survived. Tears were streaming down my face. My brother had betrayed me.



Then I looked down at the tragically hard concrete and was completely blown away. There in the broken fragments was...









NOTHING!



It wasn't a dinosaur egg. It was just a stupid rock! Then I went inside for a Capri Sun.

The Dinosaur Egg

When I was in first or second grade I was digging around in the woods on the other side of the "rusty fence" (this was before the stitches incident) and I struck something. It was round, hard, smooth, and grey. I exhumed the object from the dirty and tangled root filled hole, wrapped it up in the tummy area of my shirt, climbed fearlessly over the "rusty fence" (wobbling dangerously back and forth at the top) and washed my treasure off with the hose at the back of the house behind the "big fan" (a different story).

Washing the dirt and grime off I soon realized what it was I was holding... it was a Dinosaur Egg!

I was so amazed and excited, I had just dug up a real dinosaur egg that must have survived a bajillion years since the Jurassic Age. Fearing I would break it I brought it in the house and wrapped it in a towel. I showed my parents and they really didn't seem to care much. I wasn't too surprised. When I showed it to my sister she seemed to believe me and told me to be very careful with it. Then I went to show it to my brother Austin, whose approval I wanted the most. I also wanted to show him up. He was always better than me at everything. But I was the better archaelogist. I had to be, I just dug up a dinosaur egg.



But, when I showed it to my brother he laughed in my face. He told me it wasn't a dinosaur egg and that it was just a big rock. I didn't believe him. It had to be a dinosaur egg, just look at it. Plus, it came out of the ground. Explain that!



For the next few weeks I kept my dinosaur egg coddled in its towel and slept with it next to me. I knew that it had to be kept warm or it wouldn't hatch. My brother kept telling me it was a rock.



Then one day when I was walking around the house with the dinosaur egg my brother ran up and snatched it from me. He ran outside and I chased after him as fast as my puny little legs could go. He got out to the patio outside the house, held the dinosaur egg above his head shouting "It's a rock!" and hurled it straight down at the incredibly hard and solid concrete sidewalk below. I was devastated and filled with berserker rage. Unfortunately Austin escaped into the house. Then I solemly trudged down the stairs to see if somehow it miraculously survived. Tears were streaming down my face. My brother had betrayed me.



Then I looked down at the tragically hard concrete and was completely blown away. There in the broken fragments was...









NOTHING!



It wasn't a dinosaur egg. It was just a stupid rock! Then I went inside for a Capri Sun.

"Stitches"

Here's a good one. My dad seems to have this idea that sickness and injury don't really exist. When I was a kid, it really took a lot for me and my siblings to convince my dad that something was wrong, physically or emotionally. In fact, I got a special attendance award at my elementary school in 6th grade for not missing a single day of school, ever, for 7 years straight. I wasn't incredibly healthy or anything, it was just that whenever I was sick, my parents still made me go to school. Luckily, on some of those occasions I would throw up or just be so ill that the nurse would call my parents and make them take me home. This anecdote best portrays my dad's mentalities on health when I was younger. 

When I was in fourth or fifth grade I used to climb over this fence in our back yard to get to the woods behind our house. I always used to dig around and find neat things back there. There was this creepy time I even found what seemed to be a tiny grave stone. I also found a dinosaur egg back there, but that'll be a different story. The fence I used to climb over was an incredibly old and rusty wire fence with sharp bits at the top and it sagged and swung back and forth whenever I climbed it. On one occasion when I was climbing it with my brother it bent backwards and I slipped and cut a big, deep gash in my stomach on the right side. My brother ran and got my dad and he took me inside. My gash was extremely painful and very bloody. It needed stitches badly. So my dad cleaned the cut with water and paper towels (no neosporin) and stitched it up... with band-aids. He must have used six or seven band-aids and stuck them going horizontally right up my cut. And then he told me off for climbing that fence.

I still have a nasty scar from that experience; a permanent reminder not to climb rusty fences, and to never consult my dad on any health issues.

"Stitches"

Here's a good one. My dad seems to have this idea that sickness and injury don't really exist. When I was a kid, it really took a lot for me and my siblings to convince my dad that something was wrong, physically or emotionally. In fact, I got a special attendance award at my elementary school in 6th grade for not missing a single day of school, ever, for 7 years straight. I wasn't incredibly healthy or anything, it was just that whenever I was sick, my parents still made me go to school. Luckily, on some of those occasions I would throw up or just be so ill that the nurse would call my parents and make them take me home. This anecdote best portrays my dad's mentalities on health when I was younger. 

When I was in fourth or fifth grade I used to climb over this fence in our back yard to get to the woods behind our house. I always used to dig around and find neat things back there. There was this creepy time I even found what seemed to be a tiny grave stone. I also found a dinosaur egg back there, but that'll be a different story. The fence I used to climb over was an incredibly old and rusty wire fence with sharp bits at the top and it sagged and swung back and forth whenever I climbed it. On one occasion when I was climbing it with my brother it bent backwards and I slipped and cut a big, deep gash in my stomach on the right side. My brother ran and got my dad and he took me inside. My gash was extremely painful and very bloody. It needed stitches badly. So my dad cleaned the cut with water and paper towels (no neosporin) and stitched it up... with band-aids. He must have used six or seven band-aids and stuck them going horizontally right up my cut. And then he told me off for climbing that fence.

I still have a nasty scar from that experience; a permanent reminder not to climb rusty fences, and to never consult my dad on any health issues.

First Memory

Since this is my first post on this blog, I thought it would be appropriate, instead of welcoming and explaining things to the reader (which is both customary and polite [oh yeah, get used to parentheses and brackets {and whatever these things are called} because I get side tracked a lot and I don't really care about sentence structure or... making short sentences]), to describe my first memory ever. 

Here it is.

I have lots of memories of my first house in Alexandria. Easter eggs hanging on the tree out front, the dark basement that was paradoxically fun (due to the trampoline, which my mom still has today) and horrifying (due to the daddy longlegs), our tv, which was a computer monitor, and our neighbor's daughter who's name escapes me (the only name I keep coming up with is Diarreah, but that's not a common name). My first real recorded event, my first real memory was of my parents. I must have been two or a little younger than three at the time, which is pretty damn impressive.

I remember being in the living room and hearing my parents in the kitchen. I either crawled or walked, I can't remember, into the kitchen and came upon my parents fighting (or arguing). The most vivid thing I remember though, is my mom picking up some book and slapping my dad across the face with it. That's it. That's my earliest memory and it's a vivid image that has stuck with me since. 

When I asked my mom about it a few years ago, she said she didn't remember it, and she especially didn't remember any book. However, with my parents I wouldn't be surprised. 

I bet my dad deserved it. 

First Memory

Since this is my first post on this blog, I thought it would be appropriate, instead of welcoming and explaining things to the reader (which is both customary and polite [oh yeah, get used to parentheses and brackets {and whatever these things are called} because I get side tracked a lot and I don't really care about sentence structure or... making short sentences]), to describe my first memory ever. 

Here it is.

I have lots of memories of my first house in Alexandria. Easter eggs hanging on the tree out front, the dark basement that was paradoxically fun (due to the trampoline, which my mom still has today) and horrifying (due to the daddy longlegs), our tv, which was a computer monitor, and our neighbor's daughter who's name escapes me (the only name I keep coming up with is Diarreah, but that's not a common name). My first real recorded event, my first real memory was of my parents. I must have been two or a little younger than three at the time, which is pretty damn impressive.

I remember being in the living room and hearing my parents in the kitchen. I either crawled or walked, I can't remember, into the kitchen and came upon my parents fighting (or arguing). The most vivid thing I remember though, is my mom picking up some book and slapping my dad across the face with it. That's it. That's my earliest memory and it's a vivid image that has stuck with me since. 

When I asked my mom about it a few years ago, she said she didn't remember it, and she especially didn't remember any book. However, with my parents I wouldn't be surprised. 

I bet my dad deserved it.