I Wanna Be in the Olympics When I Grow Up

This one was inspired by a wonderful post by my bloggerfriend, Heidi.

As kids, my siblings and I were completely fearless. We had no sense of our own limitations or potential mortality. I'm pretty sure it was a result of a mixture of heredity and environment.

Exhibit A:

My dad used to play this game called "Olympic Gymnast" with us kids when we were little. We'd lay on the ground and stick our feet straight up in the air. He'd grab us by our heels and flip us a** over teakettle across the room to land on our feet. When we stuck a landing we'd fling our hands in the air like... well, an Olympic Gymnast.

While waiting their turn, the other siblings acted as judges. You scored an automatic 10 if your feet brushed the ceiling and scraped off any of the texturing.

Surprisingly, all of us are still alive. Thinking back on it now, I don't know why he didn't just give us a pair of tweezers and point us in the direction of the nearest electrical socket.

It was the best game EVER.

Exhibit B:

I have a scar on my knee (one of many) that was the result of an attempt to slide down the tin roof of a barn onto the back of an innocent, unsuspecting equine. You know... Zorro style. I was ten years old, which would have made the two siblings who accompanied me on this particular wild west adventure 8 and 4 years old.

The only thing that prevented a second - and I'm sure spectacularly successful - attempt was the sudden fear that my parents were probably going to see the wound and ask what I'd been doing when I was supposed to be watching my siblings. Somehow the idea of announcing that I was watching my siblings because they were both up on the roof with me wouldn't be viewed as a satisfactory answer. That, and the fact that it wasn't our barn and it wasn't our horse probably wasn't going to help my case any.

Exhibit C:

The professional grade slingshots my dad gave us.

Exhibit D:

The blowdart gun (complete with actual darts) the siblings all chipped in to purchase at a neighborhood garage sale. The transaction took place in complete secret and we practiced our blowdart skills religiously on tin cans and stacked milk cartons filled with water. Eventually the novelty wore off and the blowdart gun fell by the wayside. Good thing, too, because it was only a matter of time before we turned those skills on our neighbors and arch-nemesis, the Freeburn kids. I'm pretty sure the blowdart gun is still hidden away in the hidey-hole in my parents attic.

Exhibit E:

The Family Trip From Hell: Hiking the Grand Canyon in August. I guess my parents were trying to weed out the weak members of the pack, because it was a Lord of the Flies experience. I've blocked out most of it, though a few of the choicer moments well up to the surface of my consciousness occasionally in fever dreams.

Ahhh... Good times, good times.