This got me thinking, of course, of how I had a different perspective of things when I was younger too and, of course, this means I am going to share it with you.
I am seven years old. Mom, Dad and I are in the basement eating dinner and watching TV... ah, family bonding time.
Brother had gone upstairs to use the bathroom, or so we had assumed, and since he was four this was not a huge deal.
Until the crying started.
Down in the basement we could hear his pitiful wails.
My parents, who were busy trying to melt into the couch...
|Keep going! You've almost done it, I can barely see your legs!|
...decided that it would be best to send their seven year old daughter to investigate the crying.
I bounded up the stairs and reached the top, and this is what greeted me:
Brother had found the utility knife and had accidentally cut himself, causing little drops of blood to splatter on the floor.
Blood. Dripping. Floor.
This is what my seven year old self saw:
I lost my sh**.
I started screaming bloody murder and calling for every form of help I could imagine.
"Daaaaaaaaaaaaad! Mommmmmmmmm! Nine-one-one! Santa! Teddy! Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhh!"
|What actually happened...|
|What I saw.|