Since this blog is primarily about me (and my daughter) I apologize in advance if I appear narcissistic. Without mincing words, I’ll just leap right in and admit that I was a strange child. I attribute none of this to my being adopted, I just felt more comfortable in my own company. I attached myself to inanimate objects – books, Raggedy Anne and Andy – and a dogged pursuit to discover Egyptian artifacts in my parent’s back yard. (Never mind that I lived in Chemainus, British Columbia – not the Valley of the Kings. My misguided brain asked the question “Why couldn’t” Egyptian artifacts be found there? Rather than the more obvious ” Why the fuck” would they be there?) Louis Leakey was my hero, and each morning I would make myself a sandwich, take along a shovel and because my parents lived on over 5 acres, 50% of which was undeveloped, I set off into the bush in search of my tomb. During the drudgery and disappointment of my “digs” I imagined that one day, my name might be associated with the likes of Howard Carter (another man I hero worshipped). I dug holes relentlessly throughout our property until it began to look as though our yard had been attacked by an angry mob of persistent moles. When I wasn’t dreaming about Dr. Leakey or Howard Carter (or getting into trouble every time someone twisted an ankle in one of my holes), I was reading. It must have been frustrating for my parents who couldn’t relate to a child who spent so much time trapped in her own head, but I was blissfully unaware that there was anything odd about this. Raggedy Anne and Andy accompanied me on all of my digs and sometimes when my findings were meager, they both took turns being buried and then “DISCOVERED” a role I assumed they enjoyed as neither complained. Raggedy Anne had a pull cord in her chest (right over her candy heart) and she had a specific dialogue that gave me chills. Raggedy Andy was mute – forever resigned to the fate of listening to his female counterpart repeating herself over and over again. He just kept smiling.
Raggedy Anne: “See my candy heart?”
Me: “YES OH YES – I REALLY CAN SEE IT!”
Raggedy Anne: “Let’s play together”
Me: “I’ll start digging your grave right now – oh what fun we’ll have!”
Raggedy Anne: “My friend is Raggedy Andy”
Me: “I’ll dig his too – I haven’t forgotten about him!”
One summer night I mustered up all the courage I had and asked if I could sleep outdoors in our pup tent, with only Raggedy Anne and Andy for protection. Halfway through the night it began raining (translation – I heard a noise and freaked out) and I raced into the house. The next morning I went outside to take down the tent and gather my cadavers for burial, when I let out a blood curdling scream. My mom came running outside and sobbing, I passed her my mutilated Raggedy Anne and Andy. In my haste to get indoors, I had forgotten to bring them inside with me the night before. Our inbred mutt of a dog had murdered them both, Hannibal Lecter style. I could only hope they had slept through the slaughter. My mom gently took the limp bodies downstairs and after a couple of hours returned them to me – I let out an audible squeak as I noted that my beloved dolls now resembled Frankenstein’s creation and his freakish bride. My mom, in an effort to soothe my broken heart (performing an extraordinary repair job in an effort not to have to buy new ones) had stitched the shredded dolls back together with all the precision of a misguided Proctologist attempting a surgery only a Plastic Surgeon should perform. Our dog had also (OH the horror) chewed through Raggedy Anne’s candy heart. We now had this conversation:
Raggedy Anne: “Seeeeeeee muuuuyyyyy cannnnndy heeeeaaart”
Me: “Your voice is scaring me Anne!”
Raggedy Anne: “Leeeettttts Puuuullllayyy Tooooogethaaa!
Me: ” Oh hell no…”
The Accidental Parent 