In conjunction (yes mom, that's a grammatical phrase which means to join words and clauses) with my mother's current posting, some childhood pain stories...
I believe I was 4. We had to dress up for some silly reason. Mom was sitting on the side of Nana's bathtub and I was standing in front of her. I still had my Stephanie Tanner bangs that swooped backwards like any good leftover 80's hair did. Mom went in for the curl and firmly planted the curling iron against my forehead. Pretty sure you can still see the spot.
***To top it all off...she freaked out and set the curling iron down on the counter. Not realizing where she set it, she ended up burning a hole in the middle sized stackable bathtub cup. So now my favorite bathtub toys were basically worthless. What good are stackable cups if they have to stack in 3 separate towers???
The biting stories are true. Although sometimes she would pinch us, either way...I don't think I've ever hurt myself without my mother hurting me worse. This could probably be a case for child services if it didn't make me laugh so hard now that I nearly cry. I will NOT do this to my children. Mom can vouch for that...I'm much more sympathetic than she is.
I was 2. As any good curious two-year-old does, I found my daddy's gun... (?) Being the type of family that likes to explain things to their children in order to quelch the curiousity, dad then resolved to teach his two-year-old daughter everything he knew about hand guns. In an attempt to simulate how the gun fired and then backfired, dad stood behind me and helped me hold the (unloaded) gun in my hands. He made a big boom noise (which scared me in the first place), and then flung the gun backwards (as any normal person would do...????).
The gun smacked me in the forehead and left a large purple bloody spot above my left eye.
We went to church the next morning and I informed everyone that "My daddy hit me with his gun."
I was 6. We were getting into my Nana's yellow car to drive to church. I reached back to put on my seat belt (like every good six-year-old does), and apparently my mother wasn't paying attention. She promptly shut the door. My little six-year-old fingers got smushed. Purple and black and slightly flattened. I'm still scared to reach for my seat belt before my door is shut.
I was two. We were driving back from Alaska. I was highly intrigued by my coat drawstrings, so like every other kid in America, I stuck the thing up my nose. It got stuck. I freaked. Mom and dad pulled out the needlenosed pliers and the video camera. Bad combination.
Oh the joys of parenthood...???