The Wrath of a Seven Year Old

//this was for my writing class as well and yes, the following is a true story. Heh.//

It was on the eve of a new chapter in my family’s life. The day after, we were going to fly out to Singapore, moving yet again because of my dad’s job. The Caterpillar families threw us a big farewell party. Kids and adults alike gathered to say goodbye to our family.

I was the only girl that day. My brother was lucky; there were a handful of other little boys to play with but I had to entertain myself or tag along. I followed the boys for a bit, watched them play some computer game about logging and got bored. I transferred to where the moms were and crawled onto my mom’s lap and listened to their conversation, filled with topics I didn’t recognize. I soon left their group as well.

The last group was the male adults. They were outside by the pool, chatting in their boisterous way. My dad was in the center of the group. He is a little man, vertically restricted because of a childhood back injury that should have killed him. He was standing next to Uncle Mike, my dad’s freakishly tall and skinny friend.

They were talking, their low voices and laughter filling the air when

 

all of a sudden

Uncle Mike, /tall/towering/nice person/taller than my dad/taller than everyone

 

reached over /barely having to move much because my dad was the shortest in the group

and

 

pushed

with one shove

 

my dad/my Appa/the star of tonight, the reason for the party

 

into-

 

INTO

THE

POOL

I didn’t realize until I felt the softness of his arm that I was biting Uncle Mike. When I talked with my dad about it afterwards, I thought for the longest time that I bit his hand, but apparently I actually bit his forearm, which, is a lot more painful. Apparently, as well, Uncle Mike had the bite mark of a furious seven year old girl for days afterwards. But I didn’t care.

I didn’t see that the adults asked my dad to empty his pockets earlier and that he most likely knew that it was going to happen; it wasn’t hard to piece together, since they were all standing by the pool. All I saw was someone being mean to my dad.

Once my dad wrestled me free from Uncle Mike, I burst into tears. The world was so unjust! The world was so unfair! How could people be so cruel? Why was everyone just laughing at me rather than punishing Uncle Mike? Why was my dad laughing at me? Where was his fury?

My mom came out to comfort me after hearing the ruckus I caused in my wrath. She hugged me and I retreated into her arms, wanting to run away and never see Uncle Mike ever again.

Some time later that night, my dad brought Uncle Mike to my spot on the stairs. I resigned for the night to fume on my own and when I saw Uncle Mike, I recoiled. But then in he folded himself next to me and sincerely apologized. Then he offered me an M&M and all was forgiven.

Or, at least, that’s how I remember it. The M&M sticks out very distinctly in my memory, the tiny object dwarfed by Uncle Mike’s big hand, only inches away from my bite mark.

I am proud to report that I haven’t bitten anyone since then. Either way, my dad always cites this incident as proof of my fierce loyalty to him. “Watch out, or she might bite you if you threaten me.” And I’m pretty sure I can do more than just bite someone to protect him, too.

 

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