My father did everything in a big way, snored, got mad, made decisions, sneezed... I remember once sitting in church with my fellow sniveling sixth graders on the third floor with some snappy old lady making us sing dull hymns and listen to a boring lesson on why exactly Moses had parted the Red Sea, as if any of us cared. The absolute bliss of her droning, boring voice was shattered by the sound of a foghorn that sounded like it had a ballistic missile shoved down its throat. Everyone looked at each other in alarm, (the teacher didn't have anyone to look at so she stared at the white board in shock). I calmly stated "My father sneezed." For a moment no one heard me, so I repeated myself. Heads turned in unison and stared at me in shock, as if wondering how on heavens name one person could create such a noise and still be with us on this earth. Of course, in silent defense of my dear father, I defiantly stared back until the teacher harrumphed and went on with the dull lesson. I got home and politely informed my father that unless he wished what small social standing I maintained with my fellow Sunday scholars to completely dissipate, he was to desist from sneezing in church. He found something incredibly funny in that, though for the life of me I didn't know what.
My parents were determined I grow up without outside influences from all the other boys and girls "in the world" which was my parents title for children not in my church. So I, with a lonely eye, watched with envy the neighborhood children getting on the bus every morning to go to public school, while I wearily trudged down into my basement to face my mother and a dreary day of home school. I didn't learn much, my head was always disappearing into the clouds, much to the dismay of my mother, who didn't quite like the idea of instructing a headless daughter. Yet despite my lack of said head, she was always telling me to use it. "I didn't know." "Next time use your head!" I never knew quite what she meant. I was quite tempted to lop off said bodily part and throw it at her the next time she said that, who knows, maybe that's what she meant. At the age of seven I was given my first pet by a rather understanding family friend who realized I was an intelligent, but quite lonely child. She bestowed on me a rat of some proportions, a black one, whom I immediately dubbed whiskers and my mother changed to Primrose.
My mother was like that, she had to be in charge of everything, and she always knew just how everything should be done. She basically ran my life until I was around nine, at which point I rebelled against her making all my decisions for me, and was immediately pronounced "unmanageable" and "rebellious." I certainly wasn't trying to be rebellious. There's just something wrong when you receive a toy bear and want to name it Bear and your mother insists upon calling it Buttons. I mean really. It's not her bear. If she wants to name it that so bad she can very well go out and procure herself one of her own.
I didn't even like bears that much, I was a horse fan.