I’d like to start out by taking a moment of silence. A moment of silence for all of the embarrassing memories that I want to lie to rest from when I was a youngster. Silence. OK, with that being over, I’d like to finally start. But before I start, I’d also like to admit that, yes, yes I do have blonde hair, but that has no reflection of my actions growing up.

You know when you’re young and it’s your birthday, and you’re able to have a birthday dinner with your family? If not, you’re really not missing anything special except for the misery that results from it. When I was probably like four -- I don’t have any recollection of this -- but I do have a picture and a forever reoccurrence of family members bringing it back up. Over and over, and over again. My dad’s side of the family had decided to go out to dinner with my parents and I. So my family and all, are seated in an Applebee’s restaurant when all of a sudden someone slips the B word and then everything goes to hell. The next thing I remember, or at least have been told, was that the workers at Applebee’s starting singing “Happy Birthday,” and that’s when I lost it all. Apparently I was shouting, crying and stomping, demanding that they would “just stop singing.” Little did I know at that very moment, my life would be the start of a platform for me.

Brothers. I could stop there, but I really shouldn’t. Growing up with two younger brothers is tough. I take pride in myself and other girls that have to endure the stuff we have to. Everything from the constant tattling to the open bodily functions that they don’t warn us about when we’re driving twelve hours to Minnesota. But that’s not what my next embarrassing moment is about, but trust me, I’ve got tons to live off on.

Anyway, this one starts off when I was about eight years old. You see, my brother Nate and I are three years apart; so as you can imagine when he was five years old, he was already getting into my way. I did what any sibling would do when your brother is bothering to no end. I decided to try to sell him. Not on eBay, but on my own. The old fashion way, with a sign and a price tag. The sign said something within the realm of “Brother for Sale!” with a price tag, of nothing. He was free and I was pleased that he would be gone, or so I had thought.

My wonderful plan had started out with me, placing a few homemade signs posted around my neighborhood in hopes that someone would at least pick up on it. I know my rational isn’t clear, but let me kind of sum it up for you. I had known that people could sell dogs with homemade signs, so I didn’t think twice of the idea that a human being wouldn’t be sufficient enough. But just as I had thought I had gotten away with my glorious plan, a friend down the street had seen my mother and had asked her about the signs that were placed around. But to my knowledge, I didn’t think my parents would recognize my handwriting. And I was wrong. To shorten it up, my parents realized that I had tried. Failed, but couldn’t do anything about it.

To bring everything up to speed and to finally commemorate my childhood, I will admit that up until the ‘old’ age of fifteen, I had believed that the direction North had always been in the direction that you were facing. To be completely honest, I’m not quite sure how I came up with that theory, but I’m obviously wrong.

Now that I’ve written a warming memoir to my childhood, I can finally declare myself as an adult. No longer am I a youngster! Amen!