I kid you not. Tracey Fletcher King’s recent blogpost reminded me of this.
I decided at 5 or 6 I wanted to grow up to be a dog. I walked around the house on all fours like our dog Cindy, who, by the way, loved every minute of my life as a dog. I drove my mom crazy in the kitchen begging, and insisted that she put my food on the floor in a bowl. She went along with these antics for a while, me eating on the floor lapping from my bowl while she ate at the kitchen table. She put her foot down when I wanted dog food (yuck, what was I thinking, my mom was a good cook.) I snuck MilkBone dog biscuits, however, which I found tasty at that age.
It wasn’t the only time I wanted to be what I wasn’t. I grew up with brothers whom I adored, and they all peed standing up. I tried that and even though they told me I was not built for that as one of them was cleaning the floor, I persisted. I decided the least I could do as my bits were growing in a different direction was to sit facing the back of the toilet, which I did for I-don’t-know how long. My brother Stephen played on this desire to grow up to be like them when he told me eating spinach would put hair on my chest. I ate lots of spinach!
At some point I settled into the realization that being the little sister and eventually a grown up woman with all the proper accoutrements was okay, and never went back to wanting to be man or dog.
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