Lesson 2: Grammar is Everything

When I was very (very) small, when I'd finished anything I would shout very (very) loudly to whomever was in the house at the moment, "III'MM DOOOONNEE!"

My dutiful father instructed me on the basics of grammar. He bent down on a level with me, his lips quirking in an attempt not to smile. "You aren't something cooking. You are a person, and you finished something. Ok?"

"III'MM FIIIINNIISHEEED!"

"A little quieter, muffin."

So on an afternoon not long before the New Year, I sat, pen in hand, on my bed with the shades closed and a dramatic aura of determination surrounding me. I was supposed to be doing my chores, but this was too epic to interrupt.

(I might mention that this is around ten years AFTER said incident.)

I wasn't in any particular hurry. I didn't feel especially ready to laugh or cry or even gasp in relief as my pencil scratched out the final words:

I placed a hand on his shoulder. "Don't lose hope."
The dark elf turned to me, pulled me closer, holding me as if he would do so forever. "I never have."

I sat up and rolled my pencil to rest in the crook of the pages. I glanced around the room, mildly surprised to see that nothing had exploded. Then I pulled in a deep breath and bellowed: "IIII'MM FIIIINNIISHEEED!"

This is how my new year came in. Unfortunately I didn't have the opportunity to yell that while the entire family was asleep at midnight on January 1, but this was good enough. Mom was looking at me funny by the time I came in to where she was sitting. "What?"

"Hey! Hey! Hey guess what I did!!"

She rolled her eyes. "What?"

I held up the bright purple notebook to give her a clue.

"You didn't."

"I did!"

She jumped up, smile as wide as ever. "I wanna read it!!"

Whatever else I have, I can count on devoted fans. Little did I know my father's well-meaning instruction would inspire a lifetime of fussiness over grammar. And spelling. And other various aspects of writing.

If only he knew what he started.

Lesson 1 -- No Throwing Frozen Vegetables

"Where are the peas?"

"Mmmm, check the freezer. Top drawer."

I stooped over the white metal container -- which was, at the moment, belching frigid air -- and searched for the elusive vegetable. A moment later my hand closed on the bulging plastic bag, twisted closed at the top and emblazoned with a deceptively green picture of peas the size of golf balls. Solid as a rock!

I shoved at the drawer with my knee and it closed with a satisfying thunk. "They're frozen."

My mother turned from her post beside the stove and pushed yet another strand of rebellious brown hair behind her ear. "We might have expected that."

I turned to look at the pot of simmering garbanzo beans, potatoes, and onions that constituted an Indian Spiced Potato Salad. "Can't put them in there like this," I muttered. "I wonder..."

Without stopping to consult her, I gave an extra twist to the top of the bag and dropped it to the floor. Mom jumped. I waited for an extra tense few seconds to make sure the peas weren't going to explode all over the floor. Delighted, I picked it up again. A few of the peas rolled around under my fingers; the rest of them stubbornly stuck into an impenetrable lump of ice.
Mom glared at me with a dubious, playful air. "I wouldn't do that..."

It must be understood that my mother is not your common person (those of you who have seen her antics on Facebook know this well). It isn't that she means something totally different from what she says, it's just ... okay, maybe it is. In any case, I knew both of us would enjoy it, so I dropped it again, sort of cringing and knowing that it would be too good to be true if they didn't spill this time.

Well, not too good, after all. There lay the bag of peas on the floor, unmarred. I bent to pick it up, laughing softly. Sweet!

Rolling the bag around in my hand, I noticed a rather large lump of unsurpassedly stubborn peas still stuck near the edge. Feeling confident by now I lifted it above my head to drop it again. Mom raised an eyebrow. "Don't push it."

"But -- "

"Think your luck'll hold, punk?" she teased, poking me. She stepped back and watched.

I dropped it.

Oh, woe to those who do not listen to the whispering, nagging little voice in the back of their heads! The bag of peas plummeted downward towards the tiled floor, and in that instant I knew I had gone too far. Still ... there was a chance that the tiny little twist of the bag top would hold ... and after this I wouldn't do it again. Hold...hold...

It held, alright.

It was the bottom of the bag that didn't.

And all of a sudden there were tiny green planets spinning all around the galaxy of fake-marble floor. I groaned. Mom tried to hide a laugh behind her hand. "I'm not helping you pick those up."

"I know that," I said, grabbing a bowl. "Do you think I'm stupid?"

What you don't know is that the day before, I had spent a rather lengthy day at the playground, jumping over things, running along a miniature train track, pulling myself across the monkey bars, and generally setting myself up for very, very sore muscles the next day. As a result getting down in the floor in pursuit of the peas was rather painful, and associated with a lot of grunting and groaning and several bouts of "ow, ow, ow", usually with each one a note higher on the chromatic scale. Of course these were all laughed at by my mom who was triumphantly grinning and standing over me with a wooden spoon in her hand. The little random comments given in a richly sarcastic tone did little more for my pride. Things like "I thought you listened better than that" and "Do you need your hearing checked?" and "I can't wait to see this become a Facebook status!"

"Oh no," I muttered, pushing myself to my feet with a bowl full of thwarted peas in my hand and a defeated smirk on my face. "This one's getting a blog post."