I don’t remember this story and it’s probably for the best. When I was a toddler I was a force to be reckoned with, you couldn’t leave me out of your sight. My parents would tell me fondly of how when I found out how to work an iron and I burnt a chunk of their bedroom carpet, I’d look at that carpet every now and again and chuckle thinking about how exasperated they looked when they told the story, of how they smelled smoke and noticed I wasn’t in my room. I bet they were furious at the time but I'm glad it's funny now.

A story that also comes to mind is when I let the family dog out, she ran and ran while I gave chase. My mom would stare at me in both contempt and unwillingness to hold in her laughter as she told about the concerned adult who found both me and the dog and brought us back home. She’d laugh and laugh telling me how ridiculous I looked, only wearing a diaper and having big teary doe eyes. I’d probably laugh at myself too.

But those don’t compare to the story that almost gave my dad a heart attack just remembering it. My first brush of death. My dad would tell this story in short breaths, his voice almost trembling as it leaks from his mouth, he clearly worried about what would have happened if he hadn’t been there. Or if he had been and made the wrong choice. My childhood home was two stories, with a driveway to the left of it and a window on the side. This window looked into my parents room, which apparently was my secret hideout for misdeeds and mayhem. For whatever reason my toddler brain decided it was a good idea to open the window, but not just the window, the screen as well. I then climbed up on the windowsill and began tap dancing, as a grown adult writing this it's stupid to do or even think about. But looking back I can’t help admitting it would seem like fun. I danced my little heart away not giving a care in the world. Then my dad walked into the room, terrified by this sight, I mean who wouldn’t be? He wanted to yell out to me to get down but he held back his voice so as to not startle me. He simply walked over and grabbed me then closed the window. When I first heard this story I was in hysterics. How could I be so dumb? But through the years of thinking of it I wonder: Could that have been the end? The end before it began? So many variables would have led to my death. Losing my step or balance, my dad calling out and scaring me, tripping and falling. My life would have concluded with a splat, and I wouldn’t even have remembered it.

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My dad doesn’t smile when he tells that story.

I don’t blame him.

I’m sorry dad.