Hi. I’m hyper-active. I also don’t pay attention very well. They say I have “attention-deficit” but I’m starting to think that it’s not a deficit, it’s an attention overload. I get distracted easily because so much flows through my brain at one time. Add that to hyperactivity, it’s no wonder I’m accident-prone. They wanted me to wear a helmet but I flatly refused.
I have a tree house. I’ve always had a tree house or a fort of some kind. I’m not a kid anymore, but each year that passes by; I get younger, by one year. If I get back to age 30, I’ll be amazed. But that’s a long ten years away. It’s better than turning sixty.
I’m short. I’m small, and I can climb like a monkey and drink like a buffoon.
Sometimes this combination is very entertaining. Sometimes it’s just completely annoying…to others.
There was only so much I could do as a kid. By the time I was six, my younger brother, at age two and a half, was as tall as me. I punched him regularly, if he annoyed me. But I took up for him, a lot. He remembers me wailing on a kid twice my size, because he’d hit my little brother. I don’t remember, but my brother recalls me swinging and yelling “You don’t hit my brother! Nobody hits my brother, ‘cept me! Take that, you moron!”
As the giant fell from a kick to the groin, I’d haul my little brother home, by his ear, telling him to STAY OUT of trouble. I couldn’t be there every time he needed me.
I’m not 6 years old anymore, but explain that to the neighborhood kids. Each year, they get taller and I get smaller. Time and again, I am outgrown. When they get to a certain height, they try to lean their elbows on top of my head, or tussle my hair. That’s when they learn what I’m really made of! These are kid’s I’ve been scaring at Halloween since they were toddlers.
Even though my tree house is for me, I must say it does attract a lot of attention, from adults and kids alike. There is not one neighbor, young or old who has not climbed up there.
With a whimsical fascination, a whisper comes out….”I’ve always wanted a tree house…just like this…”
Yep, me too. That’s why I keep working on it. That’s why I have more scrapes, scratches, abrasions, tears, bruises and bug bites than anyone I know. And I wear shorts all the time, so they show. I sometimes appear to have chicken pox. But it’s just poison ivy.
Everyone that knows me doesn’t really notice; it’s just a part of me. But sometimes, strangers will look at my tanned, scraped, burned and just plain injured skin and gasp.
Before they know it, they’ve commented behind their hand. “Good Lord, child, what happened to you?”
“Ooooohh, just life”, I say as I scamper out of the liquor store.