z,y,x,w,v,u,t,s,r,q,p,o,n,m,l,k,j,i,h,g,f,e,d,c,b,a

So I’ve said a lot about my mother who was pulling her hair out in these days, but my dad was another case. I had always wondered what had caused me to be such a wild un-controllable kid. After a while of thinking I came to my conclusion, dad.

Ever since I was a toddler learning my ABC’s he would mess with me. My dad is one of the most humorous people I know, when you’re not the victim. My mom would successfully get me to sing “a,b,c,d,e,f,g,….. now I know my ABC’s next time wont you sing with me?” Well, my dad was next to sing with me. He found it hilarious to scramble them up. “z,y,x,w,v,u,t,s,r,q,p,o,n,m,l,k,j,i,h,g,f,e,d,c,b,a” Funny only when you aren’t the only kinder gardener who sang the ABC’s wrong. No wonder I hated flash cards. This is one of the multiple child hood traumas I have had.

For the first 7 years of my life I believed strawberry ice cream was called “pitipoti”. Why? Everyone at the grocery store would get a kick out of the little blonde toddler asking for pitipoti ice cream.

These are not the only cases I have to state my theory. There was the time when my dad intended to teach me how to surf. Before I knew it there was a surf board smack in my face and I was crying amongst the waves. Who found this hilarious? Certainly not the ten year old who for two weeks went to school with a black eye. After this experience I insisted on a private professional trainer.

I don’t regret a single moment though; these are the things that make me who I am today. My dad built my strong character; He taught me that every fall is a chance to get back up. My crazy wild child hood gave me memories and experiences to tell. All the hard times I gave my mom made my relationship with her the strong one it is today. These are the moments that make me who I am.

My Very First Goal Ever! Yay!... SIKE

So today I’m going to take a short break from my lovely child hood to talk about my wonderful experience today. I was in PE (not voluntarily) when Nazly decides to make us play soccer. Now this is a problem for me since 1. I had awful cramps, and 2. I intensely dislike sports with balls. “Exercise makes cramps better! Go run two laps” like I haven’t heard this from every PE teacher I have ever had. So I finally gave into the whole idea of playing stupid soccer. I was defense for a while and I was doing well. Then Nazly decides I should move up to playing the field. I made my first goal ever. It was a great experience until part two. They passed me the ball so I went running to get it. In an attempt to stop the ball I leapt and landed on top of it. I can still hear my foot cracking in my head. So then I was sent from the infirmary to the hospital where I met up with my dad. My dad decides this is the funniest thing that has happened to his daughter and makes a comedy show out of it. He also decides the nurse is not qualified to push my wheel chair. He crashed me into a wall. Also a friend of mine Santiago Deambrosi decides to make a comedy show out of it and posting the story on his blog. Why are people so sadistic? I also made my own FML out of this.

Today I made my first goal, I also got my first cast FML.

Santiago Deambrosi is a mean person < Link

Schizophrenia Scare

My house keepers were Aymara and believed all in animate objects had life. This to me was the perfect information. It was another opportunity to cause trouble.  I planned for a while how exactly I was going to complete my mission. I wasn’t a normal kid who would sit around and eat play dough and color in books. My idea of fun was melting crayons in the sun room and sticking playdough in the drain. But not even my idea of fun would come close to my master plan.

I hated my dolls, they scared me. While everyone would play with them nicely, I would through them off my room balcony. Really who gives the bedroom with a balcony to a five year old with distorted ideas of fun? My plan took a few weeks to complete, but it was flawless. Perfect I thought, ill use my dolls. Jump ropes tied to their necks, my doll collection hung from the fourth floor stair case. “Ahhhhh” screamed Brigida and Sofia in unison.  “Señora! Señora! Ave Maria Purisima, su hija, su hija!” just as I had planned it. Dopamine rush J. Mom wasn’t thrilled.

My mother at this time didn’t know if it was her parenting or I was just a devils child. One day after picking me up from school I began pointing at the trees. “Mom” I said, “the trees are talking to me”. “What are they saying Sophia?” She said trying to stay on the road while acting as a shrink. “They are telling me to hurt lots and lots of people mommy” I said. The “oh shit” expression wiped across her already pale face. All I could do was smile.

 Before I could scare her even more I had pieces of what seemed like play dough with wires stuck to my head; I was being tested for schizophrenia and many other things. As it turns out after months of shrinks and specialists I have a common case of severe ADHD (attention deficit hyperactive disorder).  This means I have a shortage of the hormone dopamine, and will do anything to get my brain to produce it.

Glasses and Maria Inarra

A few months went by and there hadn’t been any major disasters. Then one day I decided glasses were the new cool kindergarten thing to have. I told my mom I couldn’t see well, and mysteriously flunked my eye exam. I ended up with an expensive pair of leopard print glasses; big mistake. After about a month the glasses lost their shininess. I proceeded to get rid of the glasses in the only way I knew how to. Snap. The glasses took the first of many trips to the repair shop. They must have mysteriously snapped about 3 times a month for 4 months. My mom had finally had it, and I told her I didn’t want the glasses any more. I told her about my deceiving eye exam and I ended up pointing E’s at the eye doctor’s again. 20, 20 was written on the top of my test results; and angry angry written all over my mother’s face.

I proceeded to the next and last phase of kindergarten; Bothering Maria Inarra. Maria Inarra was my kindergarten teacher. Before leaving every class she had us read flash cards. “A aa apple” she would say. “A aa apple” said the class. I hated flash cards more than Maria Inarra. My flash carding would sound a little more like this: “A (burp) aa apple, B blah banana, C I hate flash cards, d dumb dumbo, ect ect…” Maria Inarra didn’t like my way of flash carding so she proceeded to putting me on in school time-out. I did not like in school time out. The next day in class Jonathan and I would get the whole class to bang their heads against their desks and “repeat I am stupid, I am stupid” during Maria Inarra’s reading period.    

My mom also disliked Maria Inarra who became the dinner conversation for the rest of kindergarten. Around this time was the electing of the new school principal. My dad had always been a humorous person and sarcastically said “Maria Inarra should run for principal”. The next day at daisy girl scouts Maria Inarra’s best friend and first lady of the country at the time, proceeded to help me with my daisy pin. “My dad says Maria Inarra should run principal” in my dad’s same sarcastic tone (not catching the sarcasm) I said. Ginger Quiroga said “well she is a fabulous teacher I don’t see why not” in the coldest tone possible. My mother never took me back to daisies again.

What's Wrong With Your Child?

My mom would take me to my play date groups only to get “what is wrong with your child” looks from all of the other young moms. At the time I must have been about 4 and we were residing in La Paz, Bolivia. On my first day of kindergarten I met my best friend Cristina Shilling or Tinie. From that moment on we were inseparable. Shortly after that we met Jonathan the third addition to our horror group of uncontrollable kinder gardeners. We dedicated our primary years in Bolivia to driving anyone in a five mile radius of us nuts.

I came home from school the second week talking about the “bother boys” on the bus. Like a normal mothers reaction she thought there are boys on the bus that are bullying my daughter. With this theory and worry that high school boys were bothering a kindergartener, she went to the principal’s office. The “bother boys” were indeed boys from high school that Tinie, Jonathan and I would bother on the bus; from throwing yogurt and cookies at them to calling them “stinky poop heads”. My mother left embarrassed again after only the second week of my kindergarten year.  

Tinie and I began to form larger groups amongst the kindergarteners. One in particular was called the kissing girls. The kissing girls had to go out every recess and kiss the soccer boys. My mom hadn’t heard about this until she received a call from Mrs. Bullen. Mrs. Bullen asked if my mom could please get her daughter to stop kissing her son at recess. My mom embarrassed once again proceeded to put me on time-out.

Phase 1: The war begins

Ever since I was little I knew the difference between right and wrong, black and white, good and bad. Why? ; Because every year of my life I was lucky enough to earn another minute of hell on time-out. Every time we moved the one thing that never failed to get lost amongst the mess was my little red time-out chair. I spent the first 10 years of my life on that chair. My mother knew I was trouble from the day I began to walk and talk.

I was never an obedient kid. One time when I was only 18 months old I was sitting in the kitchen throwing cheerios out of the box when my mom walked in. She decided to practice her new techniques she had learned from the latest “take control of your child” parenting books. So she began with her calm voice “Sophia please stop throwing the cheerios.” To this I smiled and grabbed another handful. “Sophia if you keep throwing the cheerios you’re going to have to pick them up.” This was just fuel to the second handful. “Sophia, I’m serious now you’re going to have to pick them up” (slightly firmer tone). Throw number three “Sophia” she said now in her firmer, I’m going to put you up for adoption voice “one more cheerio and your picking them all up.” I turned around and gave her a preview at what the next 8 years and 6 months would be like. “Make me” I said throwing the fourth handful. My mom quickly forgot everything the books had to say as she proceeded to pick me up and use my fingers to pick up every single cheerio I had thrown. From this day forward the war had begun.