My two oldest siblings were away at college for a lot of my childhood. Since there were 6 kids my parents couldn’t really afford for them to come home on random weekends or more minor holidays, but they always came home for Christmas. We all would go ape over seeing them. We would fight over who got to sit next to them at dinner and who was hogging too much of their company. It was all too much for 4 little kids to handle.

One year, I convinced my whole family, and my sister Jody, that she should stay in my room during her trip home. Erin had moved into Jody’s room since she had left, and I had a bunk bed, and I promised to be quiet in the morning and not talk too much when she was trying to fall asleep and she could sleep on whatever bunk she wanted! Who could turn that down?

She agreed! A Christmas miracle!

She chose the bottom. I cleaned my room and my dad helped me string my bunk bed with Christmas lights, which felt extremely hospitable of me. All the other kids were jeal’. The only thing left to do was wait and before I knew it, my cool college sister was wheeling her suitcase into my room and making herself at home while I hung from my bunk bed ladder like a monkey, falling apart with excitement.

I spent the next few days dishing out early 90s disses like “in your face” and “top that” to Erin and Nathan. I had a new confidence surrounding me that came with Jody staying in my room. I strutted around the house knowing that Jody chose me over everyone else and I was a 10 year old on top of the world.

Until I peed the bed. Yes, I peed the bed.

I have replayed the night over and over again. What could I have done differently leading up to the great pee? Was I a victim of a freak accident? All I know is that I was sleeping, minding my own business, dreaming about cute little girl things and then I woke up to that terrible wet warmth. It was horrifying. Thankfully all my rustling around and sheet changing didn’t wake Jody, and I was somehow able to cover up the whole ordeal. But come breakfast and believe you me I was a much more sheepish and less diss dishing little sister.

I learned my lesson the painful way. I like to think I was a sweeter and less boastful child after that. And Santa showed mercy on me and gave me tons of Barbie stuff that year. Including Totally Hair Barbie. My family was clueless to the accident and Christmas was saved.

And I never ever peed the bed again until I was pregnant.

It’s hard to imagine that cute face sneaking a stiff drink.

There was this family in our neighborhood growing up that threw a huge bash every year for Christmas. We would all dress fancy…I would always wear patent black Mary Janes and some sort of huge bow with my hair pulled half up…and prepare for a lovely evening. These people were actually neighbors from our first house in Oak Ridge, and since we had moved I didn’t ever really know the new neighbor kids that were invited. At that age it didn’t matter much, and before I knew it I had new best friends to hang out with.

Every year the adults seemed to get older and older. And every year I couldn’t believe I still had to eat the food at the kids’ table. So one year, I decided I was going to sneak some adult food. It looked so much better. I guess I had sophisticated taste buds at a young age, because crackers and cheese looked way more appealing than the artificially colored stuff at the kids’ table. Or maybe it was just that I had forbidden fruit syndrome.

It was a lot easier than I thought it would be. I got in line at the adult table, got myself a plate and a napkin and proceeded to serve myself all the delicacies there were to offer. Then I got to the punch bowl. It was a normal color, which was refreshing compared to the alarming green drink that was being served at the other side of the room. I scooped a few ladles into a fancy glass and wandered back over to mingle with my new friends.

I took a sip of my drink and gagged. “What the crap kind of punch is this?” I thought.

My mom taught me not to waste food, and I didn’t want to admit that the wonderful feast at the adult table was anything but, so I decided to keep drinking it. I mean, what kind of guest would I be, offending the hosts punch making skills? I choked it down slowly and steadily, plugging my nose with each gulp.

Finally, someone tapped on my shoulder, a grownup, and said “sweetheart you can’t drink that, it has alcohol in it.” and she snatched it out of my hand and walked away while I stood there in shock.

I thought ‘if she tells on me I’m definitely definitely grounded forever and I can for sure kiss the Barbie Dreamhouse I asked Santa for goodbye.’

The party was officially ruined. I sat there wondering if I was drunk (I wasn’t) and what my mom would say when she figured me out. If she wasn’t allowed to drink alcohol, I certainly wasn’t either. I was a goner.

Welp, my mom never found out (until this post) but unfortunately Santa did, and he held a mega grudge against me (hard core) and never gave me the Barbie Dreamhouse I asked for every year from the age of 5 to 17.

And I never ever drank alcohol again until senior year.