Even though I was known to be a “picky” eater as a child, and probably into adulthood if I am being completely honest, I enjoyed eating very much. It didn’t matter if it was breakfast, lunch, dinner, snacks, although I have always been partial to a good breakfast. Some people have their steak and potatoes, I have my eggs and coffee. Regardless, one morning (or maybe it was evening) when I was around two years old, I was placed in my highchair in anticipation of food, glorious food. Two large hands (probably my dad’s) lifted me from the floor and placed me gently into my elevated throne, with my subjects beneath me, as it should be.
My hands and feet swirled in a rotating fashion as an outlet for the excitement I held for this new meal. My blond curly locks swished through the air as I twisted my head side to side in an expression of enthusiasm. I don’t recall what I was about to feast on, but it had likely been a good several hours since my last feeding, so needless to say, I was famished. Eggs. I think it was scrambled eggs. I smelled them first and then later saw them on my plate with separate sections for different types of food. I didn’t care where things went as long as those sections were filled, and truth be told, no food touched another kind. Finally, they were placed gently before me, and I was fixin’ to dig in. I had not yet mastered, or rather saw the need for utensils, so I became quite proficient in feeding myself with my hands, the way a caveman (or Henry the Eighth) might.
With great excitement, I leaned forward towards my plate when suddenly the tray on which my plate sat slipped forward against my weight and slid off the tracks for the highchair. My forward momentum carried me forward as I watched in horror as the plate flipped and the eggs headed for the floor. In an instant, I became aware of the fact that I, too, was heading for the floor in an ungraceful face-first orientation. My first thought was, “has the five second rule been invented?” I mean, could I eat the eggs even after they were on the floor? We didn’t have a pet, and we were a “shoes off” kind of house, with a fastidious German raised mother (which may be redundant) keeping it clean. My second thought immediately followed the first and that thought was, “Oh shit. This is going to hurt.” And it did.
Stunned, I picked up my head to have my vision obscured by blood pouring generously from my forehead down my pajamas. If I was wearing pajamas, no doubt it was breakfast, pajamas were not allowed at the dinner table. I heard screaming, loudly and uncontrollably, only to once again realize the screaming was coming from my mouth.
I don’t remember my brother laughing (but then again I don’t remember that he didn’t), but both of my parents rushed into action. My father clamped a napkin tightly over the offending wound in an effort to stop the bleeding, I can only presume. It may have been to protect the linoleum, but I’m almost positive it was to staunch the bleeding.
The car ride to the doctor’s office was a blur to me, but I do have a vague recollection of the stitches that closed the wound and left a pretty impressive scar on my forehead. It was not in the shape of a lightning bolt, which was disappointing, however, JK Rowling was only a few months older than me anyways, so Harry Potter was years from conception. The scar did make me look ever more rugged than the baby face which was my visage. This made me look dangerous in preschool, which worked in my favor with the girls. I would gravitate to the red fire truck pedal car which naturally gave the impression that I had earned the scar by some feats of daring. The ladies loved it. This played well in preschool, but when I moved on to high school, my baby face stayed with me. So, while my classmates were stampeding through puberty and growing cheesy mustaches, I looked like a fetus with a scar on his forehead. In other words, not dangerous or sexy.