Wednesday Reader, June 8, 2022

There is a story in my family that has been told and re-told so many times that I’m no longer certain of the truth behind the tale.  It sits on that amorphous place of being 100 percent accurate or 92 percent false.  And knowing all the players in the story, I couldn’t even begin to guess the answer.

The story is about me, though I have no recollection of the event.  I was 4 years old and advanced for my age.  My parents were considering putting me in kindergarten a full year early.  We went to school, at which I was tested on my knowledge — the alphabet, simple math, shapes, etc.

I passed everything with flying colors — colors that I could identify, by the way.  It seemed a given that I would be starting kindergarten early.

That is, until we got to the animal noises portion of the exam.

Animal calls were a big thing in my house.  My dad and his brothers have been kicked out of more than one restaurant for disturbing the guests with their onslaught of elephant trumpeting and bird tweeting.  It’s a source of pride for the Langrocks.  Ask any of my cousins.  We all have a call that we’ve perfected over the years — a neigh, a moo, a growl.  My specialty is the chicken.  And when the Langrocks get together, watch out.  No, seriously, watch out.  You may want to leave the premises.  The cacophony of the Amazon has nothing on us.

Needless to say, I knew I had this whole animal noise thing down when the teacher asked me to provide matching sounds to the picture cards.  First the teacher held up a photo of a cow, and I rightfully said, “Neigh.”  She shook her head.  The the teacher held up a horse, and I rightfully said, “Oink, oink.”

She bit her lip.

Finally, she held up a bird, and I jumped around the room, scratching at my armpits and squealing like a monkey.  I failed the last test and would stay in preschool for another year.

My mom was confused.  When she spoke to my dad about it, he laughed in that nervous way we do when we know we have royally screwed up.  “I just thought it was funny to point out a sheep to Katiedid and say, ‘Ribbit, ribbit.'”

Thanks, Dad.

Honestly, I always found the story pretty hilarious — hilarious in that cool-you-jacked-me-up-but-I-sure-ain’t-doing-that-to-my-kids-way.

My daughter is 2 ½.  She is sweet and funny and brave and beautiful and silly and opinionated, and oh, sweet heavens, she can scream.  The word I use with her most often is “feisty.”  It’s a nice way of saying that the terrible twos have taken me — and my entire household — prisoner.  The fact that  we all have intact eardrums is a modern-day miracle.

The sapling, as I like to call her, insists on doing everything her way, from picking out the most outlandish outfits you’ve ever seen to brushing her hair with a toothbrush.  We roll with it.

Lately, her favorite color has become orange — including her food.  This was familiar territory for me.  When my brother was young and obsessed with the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles, he went through a phase of wanting everything to be green.  When it came to food, he was on a healthy diet of broccoli, salad, spinach tortellini and mint chocolate chip ice cream.  A green diet is pretty much a parent’s dream scenario.

Orange, however is one of the worst diet colors ever – along with fuchsia and aquamarine.  No one can be healthy with only orange food!

That’s when I held up a cucumber and said, “Sapling, want some orange?”

“Orange?” she asked confused.

“Orange,” I nodded.

She ate it.

I think I owe my dad an apology.

~ Katiedid Langrock  copyright 2018 Creators