Having my oldest daughter turn 7 got me thinking about my own fun-filled 7-year-old days in small-town Iowa. But, there was one unjust event that marred my 7th year. That was the year of the wooden flowers:
One day, while I was certainly minding my own business, I heard of a garden tragedy. Someone had broken my mother’s wooden decorative flowers. Who would do such a thing??? Apparently, me.
“Janae, we know you broke the flowers?” I hear my mother say.
“I didn’t break the flowers.”
“Tell us the truth. Now.”
“I didn’t break the flowers!”
I was sent to my room, crying. Later, my parents came up to chat.
“Janae, we love you, but you need to tell us the truth, or you’re not getting dinner tonight.”
“OK, I broke the flowers. But not really! If I tell you that, will I still get my dinner?”
That night, I did get my dinner. I asked my mom, “Will you believe me when I’m 8?”
Years later, I found out that my adult neighbor had told my mother she had actually seen, ME, break the flowers.
I’m guessing it might have been payback for always telling on her boys, who hung out with my older brother.
I am 35 now and I did NOT break those flowers. I hope my parents believe me now.
(All conversations are based on my childhood memory, which I’m certain is 100 percent accurate.)