11 November 2018

The sound of police sirens down the street. Me…a one-and-a-half-year-old…missing. It was late. My dad sprinted toward the sounds, praying nothing bad had happened. He would be on bad terms with mother, for sure. Like a mad man, sweating profusely and probably speaking gibberish, he asked the officer what was going on. Without an answer, he turned his head to the sound of “daddy” and found me, butt-naked, in the back of a police car.

Earlier that night, I was taking a bath. My mom told me she was going to the store to get diapers, as I remember it. She asked if I wanted to come and I replied with a simple “no.” As a typical one-and-a-half-year-old child, it wasn’t soon after that I changed my mind and was already out of the tub wrapping a towel around my shoulders. I wanted to go, too…but she was gone.
I came to the back door and found it stuck shut by a hook and eye latch at the top of the door. I’ve been a problem solver since birth, so I quickly found I could use a broom stick to fix this child-proof barrier. I ran down the street and, somewhere along the way, lost my towel. Apparently, someone reported a streaker and I was picked up a couple blocks from my house.

Although it’s been so long, I haven’t changed much. I’m still that little kid, running down the street, bare with pride, making goals and chasing them. I’m not scared of not getting there, I am just doing all I can to get where I’m going. Towel or not, I’ll continue.

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