Egg Yolks

We lived in a great neighborhood growing up. Our ward was amazing (and included a LOT of family members), so it was difficult to get in trouble without your parents knowing about it. In other words, it was easier to just avoid trouble to begin with because your parents were bound to find out from someone else what you'd been up to, and others would be more honest about it than you would. "It takes a village ...." So true! 

When I was about five years old, I went to a friend's house one afternoon without telling Mom and Dad (or anybody) where I'd gone. Normally, Mom didn't have a problem with me going to other people's houses, but she did ask that I always leave a note to say where I was so she wouldn't worry and would know where to find me if she needed me. On this particular day, I either forgot to leave a note (unlikely) or figured it wouldn't matter where I was because I'd be home before she would be home (likely). My five-year-old brain thought that made perfect sense. 

So, I went over to Jennifer's house to play. She lived across a major street and down a block, so it wasn't too far, but it also wasn't normally where I went. It wasn't like going through the hole in the fence to Shauna's house. Jennifer's mom worked, so the house was left to us for the taking. The problem was that we played outside at her house most of the time, so we couldn't have heard the phone ring, even if it had. 

I don't remember the details exactly, but I remember walking home, and as I looked both ways to cross the busy street I remember seeing Mom sitting outside of our house on the front porch steps. It was unusual. Mom was busy all the time. If she wasn't teaching school or running errands or cooking or cleaning the house, she was serving others or working in some other way to make the world a better place. She was NEVER just sitting outside on the front porch steps. 

Now, remember, this was the "old days" before cell phones were even an idea. 

As I came across the street, I hollered out to her. "Mom! Hi!" And then I realized something was really wrong. If it had been possible, there would have been steam coming out of her ears. I approached her and she said, calmly (which should have been my first clue I was in deep, deep trouble), "Katherine Janae, where have you been?" Uh oh. Full name usage. Put me in jail now and throw away the keys. "Over at Jennifer's house," I managed to say. 

And then she teared up a little as she explained that she'd been looking for me for almost three hours. She'd called everyone she could think of to call. Nobody had seen me. Nobody had talked to me. My siblings didn't know where I was. Dad didn't know where I was, but he was out looking for me, and they had decided to call the police if he hadn't found me by the time he returned home. My aunts and uncles and cousins that lived nearby hadn't seen me and didn't know where I was. She was at her wit's end and thought I'd been kidnapped - or worse. I tried to explain that I thought I'd make it home before her, etc. (As a kid, I was terrible with time. I got that from Dad. Now that I'm older, I have a pretty good sense about what time it is, even without looking at a clock. I get that from Mom. Guess that means I'm a pretty good 50/50 mix, huh?) 

We went in the house, Dad finally came home, everything seemed tense, but nothing was said about punishment, so I was living in mortal fear of what would happen. The rest of that afternoon was a blur, but then as we were getting ready to go to bed, Mom called me into their room and said she and Dad had come up with my punishment. I would need to write the following 100 times on a piece of paper: "I will never go anywhere again without asking Mom and Dad for permission first." At five years old, that was a LOT of writing. I probably cried and said how sorry I was and please forgive me and on and on. 

The next day was a Saturday. I got up early to watch cartoons. Dad was awake and getting ready for work. He asked if I had started on my 100 sentences. I said no, so he got me a piece of paper and a pencil and said to get started. Dad could make me crumble in tears by looking at me the wrong way, so I obviously did what he said. I didn't want "the look." He left the cartoons on while I worked, and then he asked if I wanted to have eggs for breakfast with him. Yes, please! 

While Dad cooked some fried eggs with runny yolks on toast, I wrote and wrote and wrote. And used my tongue to play with a loose tooth that needed to come out, but I couldn't bear the thoughts of having yanked. Dad always yanked them out pretty quick with little pain, but that one second of grief just wasn't worth it to me. I tried to let them fall out "naturally" instead. So I continued to write my sentences and wiggle my loose tooth with my tongue while watching cartoons. 

Finally, Dad brought breakfast into me. He finished whatever he needed to do to get to work, kissed me on the head and left, and just as he walked out the door I finished my last piece of toast with the runny egg yolk on it. I always liked to try and make the yolk "burst" in my mouth without spitting any onto my plate. (Don't ask - I don't know what the big deal was.) Anyway, when I burst the yolk in my mouth, it created enough pressure on my tooth that it came loose, and I accidentally swallowed it with the yolk. I just sat there with pencil in hand wondering what I should do now that I'd swallowed my tooth. And then I kind of started to freak out. By then, Mom was up and getting ready for the day, and when she came into the family room where I was watching TV she saw me crying. 

Looking back, she probably thought I was crying over the punishment of having to write 100 sentences of the same thing. But before she could even ask what was wrong I said, "I swallowed my tooth! Is it because I was naughty yesterday? What will happen now? Will I die?" Bless my mother for not laughing directly at my face. I'm sure she wanted to - more than once! Instead, she reassured me that my tooth was not forever lost, but we wouldn't be looking for it (smart move, Madre), and maybe if I left a note for the tooth fairy she would see about leaving me a quarter. (Yeah, you kids that get $5/tooth these days? Ridiculous. Even with inflation, you shouldn't be getting more than $1 a tooth! Count your blessings.) 

I finished my sentences later that same day. I worked all day on that piece of paper. I'd even tred to make it look nice, so if I messed up I'd erase it as good as possible and start the sentence over. I remember how much my hand hurt, but I also remember being really grateful that I wasn't going to die because I'd swallowed my tooth. Plus, I was glad to know that swallowing my tooth had nothing to do with my disobedience. Somehow, I'd connected the lost tooth and swallowing it with going to Jennifer's house and not leaving a note. 

I'm not sure which "punishment" was worse (or more effective): writing 100 sentences of the same thing on a piece of paper, or swallowing a loose tooth with egg yolks. Either way, the lesson remained with me, and I never went anywhere again without asking Mom and Dad first or without leaving them a note explaining where I was, who I was with, and when I'd likely be back. 

Isn't it funny the associations you make as a kid? To this day, I can't eat a runny egg yolk without thinking of that experience. It's really kind of ridiculous!