I was an only child for eight years until my baby brother joined the family. I was a sweet little girl with big blue eyes and curly brown hair. I was the fairy dust of my father’s dreams and the sunshine in my grandparents’ and great-grandparents’ world; the first grandchild in my Mom’s family and the first girl grandchild in my Dad’s family. My aunts and uncles thought I was adorable. In short, I was spoiled.

And then there was the other me. I was contrary when confronted with chores I didn’t want to do; “forgetting” or ignoring them. I filched small items from the neighborhood grocery store and drug store. My mother made me return with her to the store, apologise, then she paid for the item, and made me give it back. Never could I enjoy the plunder from my piracy if my mother found out. I told whopper lies – stories I believed enhanced my ordinary existence. I cheated my younger cousins at games. I had a big imagination and lived in my own world. My mother knew that side of me, and she did her best to curb my larcenous tendencies and squelch my imaginative versions of reality. She made me account for the misdeeds she discovered. I learned to be devious, so some were undiscoverable.

I was a tomboy who climbed trees and made mudpies with the boys in the neighborhood. I didn’t play with girls. No matter how hard Mom tried to make me a girly girl, I couldn’t find fun in role-playing with dolls and paper dolls. I preferred action, playing cowboys and Indians, kick the can, and hide and seek with the neighborhood boys. I rode my imaginary horse up and down the street and groomed him in our garage. Those were the roles that shaped my days.

Mom was tolerant to a point and tried to keep the tornado in bounds. Once however, I stretched her last nerve to the breaking point. We lived in a small house with a living room, dining room, and kitchen, as well as two bedrooms and a bathroom in between.

 One Saturday afternoon, in my fourth year on the planet, Mom called me in from playing in our backyard. I had been strictly told to stay clean for dinner because my aunt and uncle were coming. I was covered head to toe with dirt. Exasperated, Mom wanted to give me a bath before dinner. She ran a tub of warm water with bubbles, then had to attend to something on the stove in the kitchen. I stripped down, ready to get in the tub. Then I thought of a plan to liven up bathtime. I went to my room, got my goldfish bowl down from the dresser, and took it into the bathroom, where I dumped the three fish, their castle, and plastic greenery into my bathwater and climbed in.

Mother came in and exclaimed in horror, “Diana, you can’t put goldfish in a bubble bath. You can’t bathe with fish.”

“Yes, I can. See.” I responded.

Mom pulled me out of the tub, scooped up the goldfish, and put them back in their bowl with cool water. I pitched a fit with muddy tears running down my cheeks. Mom cleaned me off and wrapped me in a towel. She stood with her hands on her hips, shaking her head, her bosom rising and falling rapidly, making the bright red flowers on her dress dance before my eyes while I awaited my sentencing. In the hall next to the bathroom was an alcove where the telephone, a black rotary dial affair, stood like a black Madonna in its dark green niche. Mom turned to the alcove, picked up the phone receiver, and spoke with harsh authority.

“Give me the number for the Indian Reservation,” she said in her harshest voice.

Standing before her, in a towel with water streaming from my little body, my knees shook and felt jello-like. “What are you doing? Who are you calling?” I inquired.

It sounded ominous. The Indian Reservation? What did they have to do with getting a bath? From Saturday serial movies, I knew that Indians were a fierce band of people who had bows and arrows and scalped little children. Family legend had it that there was Indian blood on my father’s side. My mother had accused me more than once of being as wild as one of those Indians.

With a dark look, phone still in hand, my mother said to me, “I give up. I’m done with your mischief.  I’m sending you back to the Indians. Maybe that’s where you belong. They’ll come pick you up.”

“No, mommy, please. Don’t send me back to the Indians,” I pleaded.

I sensed a hesitation on her part.

I continued, “I’ll be good. I’m sorry. I won’t put goldfish in my bath again.”

“You promise? You’ll behave? You’ll mind me?” She took the phone away from her ear.

“Yes. I’ll try my bestest.” However, sensing her willingness to give in, my fervor began to dissipate.  I saw her anger subside when she thought her threat worked.  I began thinking, mmm, Indians do have horses, and I always wanted my own horse.

It was certainly not the last time I created havoc, caused her frustration, consternation, and aggravation. She maintained her vigilance, but my father was always ready to redeem me. I didn’t feel I was doing wrong. It was my natural inclination to color outside the lines. I resisted rules, but stayed within barely acceptable boundaries. I make this confession because I mended my ways, reviewed my sins, contritely and retroactively asked for forgiveness.

Unfortunately, the goldfish didn’t survive the night, a weight my soul has to bear.