Triplet Tales

Farm Flash Flood

2010-07-24T11:56:00.000-07:00

When I was just three years old, my dad bought a farm 2 hours south of where we lived. It was set on 8 acres, with 100-year-old buildings, and a barn with a roof that sagged in.

Immediately, my brother, sister, and I became real 'country kids'. We painted buildings and splattered our overalls with paint. We drove lawn tractors around wearing baseball hats. We sang to country music, gardened for hours on end, and caught fireflies in glass jars. The only thing we didn't have was farm animals.

My sister and I would explore the forest surrounding our farm for hours on end, each carrying buckets that we would use to collect mushrooms (morels were the best), rocks (we called them 'gems'), and old pieces of junk (we found old purses, shoes, and car pieces sitting in the woods).

At the age of nine our dad started giving us driving lessons in an old jeep (or 'Trooper' as we called it). I also became a dirtbike girl. I spent all hours on my dirtbike- which I called a motorcycle- and would enjoy racing through the fields parallel to the highway, trying to race groups of Harley Davidson riders. My uncle Al called me Hell's Angel.

Then, one year we had a brilliant idea. We wanted to bring a friend to the farm!

We called up my friend, a girly-girl named Katie, and invited her to come, along with her mother and sister. We gave them a wonderful tour of the rundown buildings, showed them our favorite trees, and pointed out over one of the giant hills and pronounced "over that hill is Hogwarts." (We honestly believed it too).

It being April, the whole farm was damp from melting snow. The air felt fresh and alive. I couldn't understand why Katie seemed so underwhelmed. Couldn't she see the beauty in everything? That moss-covered log, the dripping storm drain, the rusty mailbox, and the sagging roof?

I decided it was time to show Katie the forest. If anything, that would impress her.

My sister and I pulled out our huge map of the forest that we'd drawn and pointed out all the landmarks, before leading my mom, Katie's mom, and Katie's sister down into the forest ravine.

Throughout the middle of the forest a thin stream was flowing, which we happily leaped over. Mud squelched on the ground, and we crawled out over a log to point out the "Great Pine Tree of The Forest."

We were having the time of our lives pointing out the landmarks of our forest. My mom made small talk with her mom, and Katie's little sister let out a never ending stream of complaints about the mud (which nobody listened to). The birds were singing, the air was fresh, and we were out in the wilderness. I hoped a deer would show itself so that we could amaze Katie even more.

We turned around about halfway through the forest and began trekking back, our boots squelching delightfully in the mud. So lost in our reverie's were we, that we didn't notice the water from the stream starting to build.

By the time we had come back to our starting point, a roaring torrent of water rushed where the stream had once been. There was no way we could cross back over to the other side without getting dragged under and drowned. We were trapped, unable to get back to the farm!

My sister, Katie, and I stood in a row surveying the surroundings with an air of satisfaction at the adventure before us. A real flash flood... imagine that. Our mothers, meanwhile, were freaked out. They meant action.

They begin grabbing logs from trees that had been swept over by the surging current and placing them carefully over the water in a makeshift bridge. The water was steadily growing stronger, until it seemed the size and strength of a small river. My mom crossed over first, to make sure it was safe, and after some wild windmilling of her arms, landed safely on the other side of the current, sliding ungracefully in the mud.

My sister, then Katie, went next, creeping across the unsteady, slippery logs to the other side. When it was my turn I was paralyzed with fear, my eyes mesmerized by the surging current.

"Come on, Christine!" My sister yelled.

Sweat beaded on my forehead as I looked up uncertainly, than placed an unsteady foot on the slick log "bridge". I decided it'd be best to just get it over with, and run to the other side.

Slipping back and forth I did two wild leaps on the logs towards the other side. My foot caught the angle wrong and I felt myself slipping backwards, my arms windmilling. Just when I thought I was going to fall into the deadly water and get pulled under, a strong arm yanked me towards the other side where I skidded, the mud spraying in the air and landing all over my mom and her new jacket.

Breathing heavily, adrenaline rushing through me, my jeans soaked, I watched as Katie's sister and mom crossed last. The logs that served as a bridge were slowly getting loose as the current tried to pull them down stream. Both mother and daughter were taking very slow, cautious steps, hardly moving forward at all. I wondered why Katie's little sister couldn't just cross by herself, and had to be led by her mom.

At the last minute Katie's little sister began slipping wildly, her mom doing everything she could to hold her up. Then in a last moment of desperation, Katie's mom shoved her daughter towards my mom, who reached out to grab her, and at the same time got her legs soaked and her boot pulled down the river, never to be found again.

Everyone was safe and sound on the other side of the river. We were drenched, covered in mud, and panting with adrenaline as the current finally broke apart the makeshift bridge and dragged it down stream. Watching in a solemn silence, nobody spoke. Then, all in sync, we turned and starting dragging ourselves back to the farmhouse.

At the farm my sister, Katie, and I began babbling at 100 miles per hour about the adventure we had just survived. We could of died and drowned! It was so exciting.

Our moms, however, set together making hot cocoa in a sort of stunned angry silence. After we had all dried off and taken cold showers in the 100 year old farmhouse, Katie's mom tersely announced that she and her daughters were leaving. I didn't understand.

My sister and I said a regretful goodbye to Katie's family before loading up our own car to drive home ourselves. My mom had her lips pursed, which was never a good sign.

Looking back now, I don't understand it, but it seems that Katie's mom blamed the danger inflicted on her and her daughters on our family. Like somehow we had been responsible for the flash flood.

Needless to say, never again did Katie come down to our farm, or come over for that matter. Every time we called, her mom would politely tell us that her family was "busy doing other things" and that Katie would not be able to attend. As happens in the friendships where the parents disagree, we slowly drifted farther apart. Now I haven't spoken to Katie in 2 years, not because I'm mad, but simply because I don't know her anymore. I guess that's just the way things go.

Oh Brother...

2010-07-22T08:47:00.000-07:00

"I want chickens." My brother pronounced one day, as I was mid-bite in a peanut butter sandwich.

I set down my sandwich.

"You mean you want chicken?" I asked quizzically, not quite understanding what he was saying.

"No chickens. The animals." He replied seriously.

I was perplexed. "To eat or keep as pets?"

"As creatures to help promote self-sustainable living." He replied, casually flipping through a his "Hobby Farms" magazine.

I didn't understand a word of what he was saying, nor was I sure that I wanted to. What could cause my brother to go from a science-obsessed, cooking, brainiac brother to be a.... farmer?

"Um... okay. Well, I guess you could ask Mom or Dad." I suggested doubtfully.

I thought that would be the end of my brother and his chicken obsession, but it was only the beginning. Not long after that first conversation I started finding random catalogues scattered around the house that sold chicken coops and feed. My brother soon became a chicken encyclopedia, never talking about anything but chickens. It was de-ja-vu all over again. Just a few months ago he had gone through a "Bee-keeping phase", even though his one greatest fear in life was being stung by bees (go figure). Now he was in his 'chicken keeping phase', even though I'd never seen him interested in them before.

"Do you like Rhode Island Reds or Plymouth Rocks better?" He asked.

To me, both of them sounded more like tourist destinations in the Northwest, so I answered "Plymouth Rock", which seemed to satisfy him.

"Bantams or regular sized?" He asked me later.

"Er... Bantams" I replied distractedly. I didn't know what Bantams were. All I knew was that my 10-year-old soccer league had been called "bantams."

My brother hounded my parents worst of all. Asking them to petition the city to allow chickens, to buy him a new, ergonomic chicken home called an 'eglu', and ranting off statistics. He created multiple Powerpoints about the benefits of keeping chickens and eating fresh eggs, and often compared their messes to that of our 2 parakeets.

I couldn't really figure out what the point of keeping chickens were. They weren't affectionate, they were messy, and they lay eggs. I figured that Colin probably only wanted them so that he could create omelets with fresh eggs.

The thought of eating eggs from backyard chickens disgusted me. So did the thought of cutting off the head and eating the meat. Did you know that a chicken once lived 18 months without its head? It's true. If my parents didn't crush this chicken idea, then I would myself.

It was about a month later, after my brother dropped another line at the dinner table saying "when we get chickens...", my parents put their fists down.

"We're NOT getting chickens." My dad said firmly, setting his forkful of lasagna down with a crash.

"B-but..." My brother stuttered, the wheels turning in his head for a statistical retort.

"We lived in the city. End of story. No. Nada." My dad cut him off.

We all held our breaths, waiting for a retort but none came. Could it be really over?

To make up for the brutal end of the chicken obsession my parents bought my brother other chicken things. They bought him a pillowcase with a chicken on it, a rooster alarm clock, and started making farm-fresh organic, scrambled eggs more often. Although none of it could really replace a real chicken, I think it helped pacify him... at least until the next obsession came.

Guppies, Guppies!... and more Ugly Guppies.

2010-07-21T06:51:00.000-07:00

Guppies are fascinating creatures, don't you think? They come in glimmering colors, feathery tails, and variations of all kinds.

I loved the idea of having a tank full of millions of colorful fish, all glistening like jewels in the sunlight. So, in 7th grade I combined my tank of plain, boring science-experiment female fish, with the colorful, irredescent, multicolored male fish.

My favorite two guppies were Kiko and Zinc, both males. They were Fancy Guppies, with scales like ball-gown dresses. Kiko was a brilliant orange and yellow fish, with a tail so long and feathery it would make any guppy proud. Zinc was my "leopard fish." He was black with golden brown spots along his body.

My female guppies were all transparent, grayish, and ugly. I hoped that any guppy offspring would inherit their father's colors.

A few weeks later we had a brood of baby guppies. There were hundreds of them. Although, some of them gotten even by their parents (hey, it's guppy parenting love!), most of them survived. Like all "guppy fry" they were born clear and ugly. I prayed they would develop their colors.

Our tank was practically filled again when another brood of guppies came. This time with hundreds of more plain, ugly, big-eyed baby fish. I desperately tried to seperate the females and males, not wanting any more fish, but somehow, a few weeks later, there was another batch! What was wrong with these fish? They were multiplying madly!

I decided this was a real emergency. Only so many fish could fit in a tank before there was no more room to move. I had filled 3 tanks full of them and was at a loss as to what to do. All the baby guppies (now older), were ugly and plain. Not one of them had developed their beautiful father's colors! Was ugliness a dominant trait?

I decided I needed to get rid of them... fast. I didn't want guppies anymore. They made messes, ate too much food, swam in circles, and multiplied. What was the use in having them?

I began asking everyone at school if they like guppies. I sounded like somebody on the blackmarket selling illegal wares.

"Hey, do you want some guppies?"

"How many?"

"I don't know, a couple hundred?"

At that point, I would lose all my possible buyers.

Finally, I decided I was desperate. If I didn't find someone to take them, I was going to smuggle them into my neighbor's backyard fish pond... seriously.

I needed to evoke sympathy, and who better to evoke sympathy from, than a vegetarian marine-biologist wanna be? I sought out Lauren, a girl from my grade and told her my terrible, heartwrenching story.

"[Sigh], I don't think my guppies are going to be around for much longer."

"What?"

"Well... you see, I have too many guppies, and if I don't get rid of them, my mom is going to flush them down the toilet."

"What?! How can she do that?"

"I don't know...[dramatic sigh again] it's either that or I find them a home."

"[gasp], you need to find your guppies a home?" She pauses to consider this. "I'll ask my mom if I can take them, and get back to you tomorrow. Just don't let her flush them down the toilet!"

Score 1 to Christine. I went home gleefully and waited until Lauren called me up.

"All right, Christine. My mom says I can take them guppies. I'll be over in 10 minutes."

Not prepared for the suddenness of it all, I gleefully began preparing my hundreds of guppies for transportations and stood waiting for her to come. When she arrived, I shoved the tanks at her before she could reconsider.

"Bye, guppies!" I called, gloating at my own good fortune. "Bye Kiko, Bye Dart, Bye Bubbles, Bye Ugly, Bye Zinc!" I called.

Soon, my hundreds of ugly guppies and 2 fancy guppies were gone... for good. I jumped with glee to have them off my hands. No more fish experiments for me! Now they had gone to a good home- where they had a compassionate, vegetarian marine-biologist owner, and no risk of getting flushed.

A Dangerous Game of Hide & Seek

2010-07-20T12:46:00.000-07:00

If there's one thing that bothers me, it's claustrophobic situations. Darkness, enclosed spaces, and lack of fresh oxygen are all factors that make me freak out. I hate being trapped.

One Thanksgiving I went to my Aunt's house with my millions of cousins and second cousins. My aunt was famous for her mashed potatoes and thanksgiving rolls, and all of the kids were running around excited for our Thanksgiving Lupper (Lunch/Dinner). My aunt was my dad's older sister... the first of eight children. She also had eight children of her own, and each of her children had an average of 3 kids.... As you can see it was a large brood.

We organized a game of "Sardines" on the giant 25-acre farm. It was a magnificent, impossible game similar to Hide & Seek. There were hundreds of wood shops, barns, antique vehicles, and hidden nooks to hide in. We were running around, kicking up golden leaves in our race to be the first to find the hidden cousin. I was the best finder. The first hidden cousin I found in a grain tower. The second I found in the old barn converted in to a basketball court. It was finally my turn to hide and I had the perfect spot. Nobody would ever find me.

I snuck off, darting between buildings in an evasive action. Finally I found the small rundown shed I had been looking for. It was hidden in the off-skirts of the farm and was crammed floor to ceiling with old woods boards and bird poop. I crept through and found what I was looking for... an old antique blue car. I remembered this spot because my aunt had hidden my Easter loot in here back in April. I opened the door and crept inside. The inside was dusty, but otherwise clean. The leather seats were comfy, with no spiders. I knew it would be a comfortable place to sit while I waited for them to find me. Most likely I would be so well hidden that they would just give up.

I climbed in and slowly pulled the door shut. Ah, relaxing. Suddenly, claustrophobia built up in me. I was in an old antique car with no way out. To satisfy my irrational claustrophobia I reached to pull open the door, but then realized.... the door handle had been removed!

Panic built inside me. Was this a normal thing that people did with antique cars? Remove the handles? I took deep, stifled breaths. The air was stale. I pushed on the window, which gave a little, and tried to suck in some fresh air from outside. Instead, I got a snoot full of dust.

I tried to calm myself, figuring that I would soon be found, but instead adrenaline was coursing through me, along with panic and fear. I had to get out. I was trapped. I was hot. I was going to die!

I began kicking furiously at the windows with every ounce of my strength. The windows didn't budge. How come in movies people can punch through a window so easily? In case you're wondering, those windows would of had to have been made of foil. I kicked for about 10 minutes straight, causing a huge racket. I climbed to the back seat looking for an exit. My breath was ragged, I was overheated and could hardly breathe. I punched at every surface- the roof, the back hatch, the windows. I was trapped like a mouse in a mouse trap. Except... nobody was there to get me out.

Finally I resorted to calling for help. "Help!!! Help!!!" I screamed hysterically, louder than I knew was possible. Surely, people had to be able to hear me from a mile away? Nobody came. What was worse, past the old wooden boards, the firmly shut wood-shed door, and the woods, my family was probably sitting and chatting nearby, not knowing of my plight.

"He-elp!!!!" I screamed hysterically, my voice breaking awkwardly. I began a rhythm. Screaming at the top of my lungs for someone under this forsaken earth to free me, while beating at the windows with every inch of my strength. I was confined. Maybe years later they would find my skeleton still sprawled across the hot, sticky leather seats of the antique car.

"Help!!! Help!!! Help!!!" I screamed, my voice high. I prayed, God just let me out.

Suddenly, I heard a noise. I froze, and couldn't believe my ears. "Help?!" I asked hopefully.

It was laughter. My sister and brother had entered the woodshed and were laughing at my plight from afar.

"Open the door!" I yelled. I wasn't sure if they had heard me. "Help! Open the door!!!" I screamed.

What if the door wouldn't open for them either? I thought. Would the fire department come and free me? Or would I die of heat exhaustion or a panic attack before then?

"Please! Open the door!" I yelled as my sister came forward peering in the windows and laughing hysterically.

"It's not funny! Let me out!" I screamed.

"What are you stuck?" She sneered, laughing.

My face was red, I was panting, panicked, and now.. humiliated and embarrassed.

"Please!!!" I said, kicking the stupid window to no avail. "The door is stuck!"

My brother must have felt sympathy, because he tugged the door open and I leaped out like a jack-in-the-box. My face red, my heart racing madly.

"There's no handles on the door!" I explained, breathlessly. Wanting to run out into the open sunshine immediately.

My sister was still laughing. A group of cousins had gathered by the door, hearing the ruckus.

"Found you!" One of them cried.

I had forgotten all about the stupid game of hide and seek. There was no way I was playing that hazardous game again. Who knew how long it would have taken for them to find me if I hadn't screamed and thumped and rocked the car. It had still taken them 30 minutes, with all the noise I was making to try and make them find me.

"I'm not playing anymore." I said, my face red and my adrenaline still coursing in me.

And with that I sprinted out of the woodshed as fast as I could and into the wide open air. Ah... freedom. Never again would I be in a confined space like that again.

At that moment Thanksgiving Lupper was called. I wasn't hungry after that adrenaline rush, but I still went and grabbed a plate of turkey, bread stuffing, and my aunt's famous rolls.

That Thanksgiving I insisted on eating outside on the front steps by myself. I don't think I could of managed being trapped in an enclosed space (or house) for a while.

See an article on a similar plight called "Car Trouble Leaves Cowboy Trapped" on this website link:
http://www.pntonline.com/articles/college-20844-coupe-prison.html

Warning: Never let siblings play with swords

2010-07-15T09:44:00.000-07:00

"Aieeee!" A scream pierced the air as my sister landed behind my brother, fencing sword flailing wildly.

My brother parried, his fencing sword teetering back and forth as they screeched and howled, jumping over furniture to get at each other.

Meanwhile, I was hiding under the art table, peering out from behind one of the chair legs as they chased after one another, stabbing and parrying.

Although in their minds they were highly skilled masters of fencing, in reality, they were stabbing at each other like three-year-olds.

I had always known it was a bad idea for my dad to sign up my siblings for fencing lessons. I, not being a violent person, had not participated, but my two siblings leaped into it with vigor. They loved the aggressiveness of it, and the violence.

The fencing had slowly evolved into kicking and punching as well. Soon they were both screaming at each other with fury, trying to tear each other's hair out.

Leaping out of my hiding spot I leaped between them. "Stop! Now!!" I roared, as my brother kicked my sister and sent her flying to the ground.

They ignored me and continued to go at each other, my sister maniacally whacking at him and scratching my shoulder in the process. I decided to leap back out of the fight.

"M-om!" My sister cried, "Colin is kicking me!"

My mom came clambering down the stairs and folded her arms in front of her.

"What is going on?!" She cried angrily.

"Colin just started kicking me and I wasn't doing anything!" My sister lied. "I was just practicing fencing."

"No!" My brother yelled, "She was kicking me!"

I evacuated the area before I got involved.

As fencing lessons continued, their violence was not all spent in lessons, but instead was increased at home. Soon every argument, no matter how petty, was solved with a battle.

I didn't mind so much, because it gave me lots of ideas for battles in my stories, but the screaming was a bit overwhelming. It was on there sixth fencing lesson that my family decided fencing was over. My siblings didn't enjoy the lessons, and my parents didn't enjoy spending the money or tolerating their new found violence.

So, let this be a lesson to you. If you planned on getting your siblings into fencing to try and spend all their anger, it doesn't work. Soon they will be solving every disagreement with a fencing match. Maybe try getting them into something like... book club? Just don't equip your siblings with swords.

A cold, dark night lost in a crater

2010-07-14T10:13:00.001-07:00

Not long after 7th grade started our family decided to go on a vacation to... Hawaii.

It was just what I needed. More than anything, I needed a trip to someplace relaxing and sunny. Little did I know that "Relaxing" was one of the last words that would be used to describe our vacation.

On Saturday in Maui (after spending 5 days already on Oahu) we woke up at a normal time between 7 and 7:30 am, pretty much adjusted to Pacific Time. It was December 20, and I was already homesick for Christmas in Minnesota... and snow.

In Upcountry Maui we stayed in a city called Ulupaluaku, in a house in the middle of the woods in "no where". My mom complained about hearing rats running around during the night, and finding spiders everywhere. At breakfast we had to have plain english muffins because there was no toaster or normal peanut butter in the stores. I felt really awkward, since this run-down house had been my own doing. I had been the "Travel Agent" of the trip, and had booked it myself.

Over breakfast we chatted about the sights we'd seen snorkeling the other day.

"I swear, I saw a green eel!" My sister cried.

"More like a piece of sea-weed." My brother snorted.

"No, I swear to whatever you believe in, it was an eel!" She argued.

"Shhhh!" I shushed them, looking out the window. A college-aged man was walking through the grove of mango trees and glancing at our house. He was creepy- he tended the fruit trees here.

After breakfast we headed out to see the sights, and then in the afternoon headed to Haleakala crater, a "must see" on Maui. My dad turned on the radio and we listened to random Hawaiian Christmas songs about Santa coming in his canoe. Gee, Hawaiians don't know the true spirit of Christmas.

We passed open, rocky country and turned right at the Haleakala sign. We started up along, winding road up to a dark brown crater. As we got higher the air seemed to get thinner. At one point we even drove through a cloud. We had no idea that we were about to come upon one of the biggest adventures in our lives.

We stopped once or twice for a break on the road before we came to the top of the crater, past the 10,000 foot high point. When we stepped out of the car we were shocked that, although we were wearing shorts and t-shirts, the temperature was under 30 degrees! Brr.

I was freezing, but at least I had remembered to wear closed shoes. Haleakala looked like a bunch of sandy craters about the clouds. We decided to hike down a short trail called Keonehe'ehe'e: Sliding Sands. It was 5.8 miles total (but we didn't know that).

There were only a few other people hiking, but most of them were coming back up the trail. A loud group of college age kids pulled up a green jeep, music blaring, and jumped out and started jogging. My brother, sister, and I decided we wanted to keep up with them. So, we began to jog too.

We jogged 2.4 miles down hill.The trail was occasionally rocky and steep and twisted back and forth. We stayed behind the college students the whole time. One of the college girls slipped and her foot was covered in blood, but she kept going as if nothing had happened. My long legs were an advantage, especially going downhill. It took no energy at all! A few times I stopped and suggested we waited for our parents, but my brother kept egging me on, saying, "Oh, I thought you were in Cross Country running. Or are you just fat and lazy?" (I'm not).

It made me so angry that I kept running. At 2.4 miles we finally reached the bottom crater. I was a bit tired, but the air was cool and kept me from overheating. At the crater I was scared to look down, fearing that the crater would just keep going to the bottom of the earth. My brother, though, climbed down to the bottom of it, and it was hardly far down at all.

After sitting next to the crater for 10-15 minutes waiting for our parents, I asked, "Are you sure Mom and Dad are coming?" We looked around nervously. We hadn't seen a sign of them, and if they were coming, they would of been here by now, right?

"I'm not sure Dad could make it down here with his bad leg." I said.

"Well," My sister said, "if we start going back up again, then at least we'll meet them on their way down, if they're coming."

We agreed this was the best plan, so I threw on my camera bag and we began trekking back up. Suddenly we noticed the sun was sinking lower in the sky- almost to the horizon point. Not only that, this place was famous for its stargazing because it gets SO dark. Oh 'swear word'! We were so stupid!

On the way back up we realized that it was WAY steeper than going down. We could hardly walk fast, not to mention jog. I felt burning anger. This was all my brother's fault. It was rocky and there was no way we could make it to the top (2.4 miles away) before the sun sank. I was so exhausted and tired I could of dropped dead from exhaustion and dehydration. I just kept going, numb and without feeling, breathing heavily. It was almost a straight-up trek. Never had I been so tired in my life. It was getting cold, too, but I was warm enough from trekking that it didn't bother me. Worries filled me. What if we fell over from dehydration? What if the park closed and we were stuck here overnight? What if we got lost? What were our parents thinking? Where were they?

I was filled with panic and wanted to either cry, scream, or drop dead. Finally, I decided that I was sick of winding back and forth on the trails. It was pointless and was a detour! So, even though it was illegal, I cut across a trail past the rare, endangered, 100-year-old Silver Sword plants.

"Christine, no! It's illegal!" My sister cried.

"I don't care. It's not like a ranger is watching." I snapped. Although I still looked around nervously, as I cut.

We walked in a haze of pain and fear. It was so dark we couldn't see the trail. All we could see was a small light in the distance that kept us moving on. We hoped it was in the right direction. I half hoped a search party with ATV's and horses would come rescue us. Except the terrain was probably too rough.

Each step hurt my legs, and I groaned when I saw the light in the distance flicker out. That meant the park had closed. I followed the sound of my siblings' footsteps. I was tired and hungry and wanted a flashlight. I began wishing that I could swap my siblings' for a superhero that would carry me to the top.

On the positive note, at least there was no chance of me dying. There were no dangerous beasts that would eat me, no heat that would give me a heat stroke, and not enough coldness to give me hypothermia. The only danger was my dehydration.

I wished I had some sort of extra energy super power to get me up. I was so exhausted I won't even bother explaining it. I was pale, my skin pasty, my breathing in rasps, and my throat hurt from dehydration. Every once in a while my stomach would let out a deep growl, and I would try and pretend I was back home asleep. We were still about 2 miles from the top of the crater when suddenlly, there was Mom!

It was the best things I'd ever seen. My brother started crying and I felt like I could start bawling.

"I'm not exhausted, I don't know why they are." My sister said, her breath rasping, as she spoke in a superior tone. I wanted to punch her, but I didn't want to take the energy to do it. I tried to explain what had happened by my mom simply said,

"Don't talk. We'll talk about it in the van."

I knew at least we were getting a good workout. My mom said a search party was planning to come get us if we didn't come up within an hour, and that the college-aged joggers had waited for us to come into view (about 10 minutes ago). I felt a rush of compassion for them.

I don't know how I walked the rest of the way to the top. We were too tired too talk, it was too dark to see, and my breath came in rasps. The palce was so dark that I could see millions of sparkling stars above us. When we eventually reached the top my dad called off the search party and didn't even yell at us. I guess he figured we had learned our own lesson.

We piled in the car and then just closed our eyes. A ranger escorted us out of the park down the windy trails, and unlocked the gait for us. As we typed in our rental home coordinates in the GPS we were led in circles for hours. I almost got sick. We got lost and when, past 11 pm we finally had dinner, the meal was $65 per person, so we didn't go there. We were all drowsy and fatigued. The winding roads and twistiness made me almost throw up. We finally went past a store and bought chocolate chip cookies for dinner. I felt so sick I was hardly hungry anymore. My dad looked so green he didn't eat at all, he just kept driving. My dad looked very ill, and I was worried about letting him drive in that state. When we finally took the hairpin turn back to the mango groves and to the rocky road that led to our house, we were all zombies. I don't even remember going inside the house. I just know I fell asleep before my head even hit the pillow. I didn't even bothering changing into pajamas.

Tomorrow, we would certainly sleep late.

My Book Published through KidPub is official!

2010-07-13T14:29:00.000-07:00

My book, Raising Monarchs: For Kids is now in print!

You can buy this instructional guide at amazon.com or KidPub press.

http://www.amazon.com/Raising-Monarchs-Kids-Christine-Catlin/dp/1936184699/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1279056650&sr=8-1

http://bookstore.kidpub.com/product_book_info/inspirational/raising-monarchs-for-kids

Raising Monarch butterflies is one of the most rewarding and thrilling projects a child can do. From the time that the Monarch hatches from its egg to when it first emerges from its chrysalis, it’s full of miracles.

Monarch butterflies are not only the easiest butterfly to raise; they’re also the most suited to being raised indoors. This book will guide you step by step through the unforgettable process of raising your own butterfly!

Journalist In Training

2010-07-13T14:11:00.000-07:00

As soon as I entered middle school I immediately joined the school newspaper. After all, I was a writer, so I would fit right in.

1 month after joining in 6th grade, I was promoted to Editor-In-Chief. My fellow reporters were dismayed. I was the youngest student ever to be appointed editor-in-chief, and I had already beat most 8th graders! The reason I had been appointed was probably because of my high level of dedication. In one school year I sent in over 100 articles. I explored every cranny in the middle school, and wrote a hit article, called "Top Ten Places You Didn't Know Were Here". I had creeped down in to the tunnels under the school, steamed myself in the boiler room, and shivered by the water tank and on the roof. Later in the year I became well known for my controversial opinion articles (such as the article I wrote: The Great Vegetarian Debate), and my reviews of restaurants, movies, books and music. I sent in more articles than most of the students would send in during a lifetime. When our first newspaper was published 90% of the work was by guess who? Me.

One of the things that had spurred me into journalism was the Rita Skeeter character in the Harry Potter books (yes, I know, she's not a good character), and the book The Landry News by Andrew Clements (a wonderful book- see it at http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Landry-News/Andrew-Clements/e/9780689828683/?itm=1&USRI=the+landry+news). In 4th grade I had written a DAILY 10 PAGE COLOR newspaper, called The Thompson News, and distributed it among my classmates. That newspaper lasted for 3 years, with regular huge anniversary bashes. I wasted thousands of pieces of paper and ink printing it. One part of my closet is still filled floor-to-ceiling with old issues of it. My whole class was recruited to take part in the newspaper I created. I had columnists, advice writers, staff writers, reviewers, photographers, and poll-takers. I, however, was the back-bone of the whole system. I spent each evening typing until my fingers were numb, and I printed in the morning before school (stapling all the issues on the bus). We had a regular hot dish of gossip from the school (always VERY popular), polls, opinions about teachers and more. Sometimes our newspaper had news that was so controversial, we had to go "undercover" briefly, until the teacher's stopped snooping around.

Until this day, I am still a journalist inside. Now, though, I am moving on to high school newspapers instead of middle school. I also send in to magazines and local newspapers. Am I Rita Skeeter material like J.K. Rowling's character? Probably not, but hey, we aren't all great gossip writers!

Here is my old, old website from my 4th grade Thompson News.

http://thompsonnews.shutterfly.com/

The pictures below are of our 3rd and final Thompson News anniversary party.

Experimental Triplet Chefs

2010-07-12T11:24:00.000-07:00

At a young age, my brother, sister, and I would sit and watch my mom cook. Whenever she cooked, she looked as graceful as Snow White trimming the crust from the pie, and any aromas that wafted from the kitchen made our mouths water. In our minds, no profession could be more noble than a chef. So, we decided to get started at an early age.

One day, my mom was down in the basement exercising on the treadmill and we decided to surprise her with a feast. I was in charge of chocolate-covered animal crackers, my sister was in charge of soup, and my brother was in charge of cake. None of us ever considered that we had no idea how to cook.

We dutifully put on our aprons and began. I grabbed a handful of chocolate chips in one hand, a handful of animal crackers in the other, and proceeded to submerge them under the hot sink water, melting the chocolate (and the crackers) in my hands. The leftover gooey, melty cracker-and-chocolate mixture I plopped on a plate. Mission accomplished!

My sister had concocted a delightful soup. She'd filled a metal bowl with water and milk, dumped half a bottle of green food coloring in it, and then floated handfuls of cheerios at the top.

Lastly, my brother, the only 'real cook' actually had something solid. His brown mixture had flour, sugar, and butter in it, along with melted chocolate. He had proceeded to pour it into a cake pan and microwave it. We could not figure out why the cake wasn't turning out like our Mom's!

When my mom came upstairs from exercising she masked her surprise with an unsettling calm. The kitchen was covered in flour, green food coloring (some of the counter is still stained from it!), and chocolate. She even managed to try a sip of Kelly's "soup" (she tells us know that it tasted ghastly).

Today, we are all accomplished junior chefs. My brother can bake just about anything, and we love his breads and cakes. I cook mostly coffee cakes and pies. My sister, alas, sticks to only the Betty Crocker chocolate chip cookie recipe. However, we all know she can cook well. When our school FACS class assigned us to go home and cook dinner, my sister made a 5-course delicious French meal (in her usual over-achieving way) that had Monte Cristos, Lemon Sorbet, Chocolate Mousse, Vinaigrette on vegetables, French Onion Soup, and enough tidbits to last us for a week.

Still, whenever any of our friends ask us how we became such good cooks, we always tell them this story. Remember, you have to start young if you want to become a master chef! Next week I'm going to try making creme brulee.

My Sister's Favorite Chocolate Chip Cookie Recipe:

From Betty Crocker 1950

Temperature: 375 degrees

Time: 8 to 10 minutes

Amount: About 3 dozen 2" cookies

Mix Together Thorougly:

1/2 cup shortening

3/4 cup sugar

1 egg

1 tsp. vanilla

Stir In:

1 and 1/8 cup Gold Medal Flour

1/4 tsp soda

1/2 tsp salt

Mix In:

1 and 1/4 cup chocolate chips

Drop rounded teaspoonfuls about 2" apart on lightly greased baking sheet. Bake until delicately browned... cookies should still be soft. Cool slightly then remove from baking sheet.

The Trickster Triplet War

2010-07-11T06:11:00.001-07:00

Playing pranks was in our blood.

Our aunt had been a notorious trickster as a kid, my dad had constantly pranked his eight brothers and sisters, and my mom was the scariest mother you could have when it came to April Fool's Day. So, it was only natural, when my relatives from my mom's side decided to come visit (from Kentucky) on April 1st, that a scheme began to form.

The day before the relatives arrived, my brother, sister, and I spent the whole day in our rooms, scheming and plotting. Nervousness and excitement seemed to boil from us, as we gathered every fake eyeball, tongue, food, whoopie cushion, food coloring, and every other prank you could imagine. Soon... the day arrived.

On April Fool's Day I always kept a low profile. My mom knew just about every prank there was, and there was no stopping her when she started. We'd had fake spiders in our soup, pennies glued down to the driveway (they still haven't come up), green goo at the bottom of our hot cocoa, and our cereal frozen in the milk. At breakfast, I always thoroughly examined my meal before taking a bite.

My brother, sister, and I were apprehensive that morning. Nobody had played any pranks on us yet. An hour after breakfast passed and the relatives arrived, and we had to leave to school. The Plan would soon be in action.

That day at school all the students were on guard. They knew the triplets might have something up their sleeve. We did, but not as many pranks as we usually had. We were saving all the 'good ones' for the relatives.

We went from class to class innocently going about our work until we got to Language Arts class... when the whole school was pierced with a terrified scream and a horrified gasp. It was our teacher, Mrs. Thompson (not her real name), and in her hand she held a sticky, slimy fake eyeball. Her eyes were wide as she put her hand over her heart. "Class, don't do this to me!" She said, shaking off the eyeball in the trash can.

Back at home, battle preparations were put into action. That evening we scared the living daylights out of our relatives. They had ice cubes with fake spiders in them in their drinks, they had whoopie cushions under their chair, they had yogurt containers that when opened, shot a spring-loaded piece of cloth into the air, they had eyeballs and fake worms in their beds, they had a fake tongue hanging out of the toaster, they even had a glowing pair of eyes on their bedroom window outside that stared in at them. As the last screams faded from the air we shook hands in triumph. Never before had we had such a successful April Fool's Day... and we hadn't even been pranked!

We headed upstairs and grabbed our toothbrushes and began brushing our teeth, before we froze... somebody had put hot pepper sauce on our toothbrushes. We all ran downstairs gasping for water, and we could hear our relatives laughing in the distance. Revenge is sweet.

The Rock Band Faze

2010-07-08T08:48:00.000-07:00

For a while in my household, all you could hear was the trilling of my gold flute as I played it for hours on end, but as summer neared its close, preparing me for 7th grade, I decided that I wanted to start a band. A real, live band with concerts and everything.

So, I called up my friend and talked to my sister and together we got together to plan at what we were going to do.

"So, who has a good singing voice?" I asked, looking at a quick check-list I'd written out.

Nobody volunteered. I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach.

"Okay... well, we can always find someone else..." I faltered. "Alright, what instruments does everyone play?"

There was a brief pause before they began listing off their instruments. In total we could play violin, piano, flute, piccolo, and recorder. Not the makings of a rock band, that's for sure.

"Christine... I don't think this is going to work...." My sister started, but I cut her off with a glare. Immediately deciding another scheme.

"Maybe we could start a whole new type of band... one that plays a variety of cool music with violin, flute, and piano!" I suggested.

The idea held. We began scheming for a Christmas concert, fundraising concert, and planning different music we could play. Our lame band name was "Classic Knights".

For weeks my friend and sister came over every day to practice. We played "Silver Bells" until our fingers hurt, and the Pirates of the Caribbean song until I never wanted to hear it again. Unfortunately, my friend, a beginner violin player, was so slow at playing that everything sounded like it was in slow motion. I knew we could never become famous this way.

So the whole Classic Knights scheme fell apart. I stopped inviting my friend over, and we stopped playing our classic music. Soon, though, another scheme began in my mind. I called up my friend and began plotting. This time, I thought, we would start a REAL rock band.

My friend and I both enrolled in guitar lessons and I bought an expensive, white and black "tuxedo" Les Paul Studio electric guitar. It even had gold plating on it. The whole scheme would have been wonderful if it wasn't for the fact that I didn't like guitar. Not only did the electric guitar sound terrible playing Hot Cross Buns, but no matter what, I could not wrap my mind around the whole "chord thing". Playing flute, I only had to pay attention to one note at a time, not chords. None of it made sense. So... 6 months later I quit.

None of the band scheme had gone well. Our classic music group was a flop, our rock band was a flop, but what about.... a jazz band?

Before I knew it my mom had enrolled my in lessons for Tenor Saxophone. For once, I loved it! The keys were big, gold and clunky, with the same fingerings as a flute. It was easy to play, mellow, and cool. I knew that paired with a piano and some percussion, it would make a great jazz instrument.

I can't tell you whether the jazz band idea is ever going to work or not. I've continued to play saxophone (and love it), though so far now band has evolved. Alone in the past 3 years, I have played piano, piccolo, flute, recorder, guitar, alto saxophone, and tenor saxophone. What do you think? I am I musically desperate or what?

Stewart and Line Dancing

2010-07-07T09:28:00.001-07:00

"Care to dance?"

That was how my first-ever dance invitation started.

I jerked around from my reverie to see a short, 13-year-old boy with spikey blond hair looking at me, his eyes pleading.

"What?" I snapped, not sure if I had heard him right.

"Do you want to dance?" He repeated, his Alabama accent drawling.

I glanced around, my face turning red, and my eyes narrowing, praying my mom hadn't seen.

Loud country music blared from the speakers at the North Carolina ranch, and even though it was my 2nd summer here, I was still not prepared to line dance. All I wanted to do was watch, inhale the mountain air, and listen to the country melody.

"I said, do... you... want... to... dance?" He repeated slowly, as if I were deaf.

"um.. No, definitely not." I said, my face burning, my heart hoping secretly that I had accepted the offer. "Go ask my sister." I said gesturing.

His shoulders slumped as he trundled across the deck to my sister, who was also standing on the sidelines while the other guests at the ranch line danced. My brother had disappeared completely back into his cabin (not a bad idea), and I sat glowering at any boy that came within 20 feet of me. Besides, Stewart, that immature midget of a boy, already had a "girlfriend", who was giggling maniacally, as she refused to dance with him. Stewart, who was desperate to have someone to dance with, continued on his knees, begging first his "girlfriend", then me, then my sister to dance. I was not lowly enough to dance with someone who already had a girlfriend, and was using me as their "last resort."

Stewart limped away from my sister, looking disgruntled, and I knew she, too, had rejected him. He looped back to his girlfriend, who once again giggled and refused to dance, then he hobbled back to me, dropping to his knees and giving me the biggest set of puppy eyes imaginable.

"No, for the last time!" I said, exasperated. "Leave me alone!" I was half-joking, but I could tell he was irritated. I retreated as far from the Line Dancing area as possible, as Stewart headed back to my sister, to beg on his knees for her to dance with him.

Suddenly I had an evil idea. I didn't need to have a partner to line dance with. I could dance on my own. I shoved past Stewart and whispered my idea to my sister, and we both smirked.

Adjusting our riding boots, we both headed out on the dance floor, our cowboy boots clicking, dancing on a line along with the other guests, enjoying ourselves. We kicked our feet, and twirled, our hands in our jean pockets just like the other "real cowgirls". Stewart looked dumbfounded.

That was the day we learned that the best type of dancing is the type where you don't need a partner. That's why we like line dancing... and why we don't like Stewart.

Sixth Grade Summation and Summer Beginning

2010-07-03T13:04:00.000-07:00

That worst year, sixth grade, was over in the blink of an eye. Before long I was once again basking in the rays of summer, with all the taunting about being the "Triplet Genius" gone. Once again there were clear skies, and plenty of space for me to run away from my irksome siblings if I wanted. My sister spent most of our first week out of school, with her head in a book, memorizing Latin (which, we didn't need to know for upcoming 7th grade anyway!). My brother immediately found himself a dozen hardcover 500-page books to entertain himself with. All seemed right in the world.

I recalled that last year of middle school with a grim pride. I had survived. Never again would middle school be so bad. If I could do sixth grade, I could do anything.

I went back to my usual daytime writing, and began scribbling down notes on a new story idea from my spot in the hammock. In the hammock I could see across the street and down the road, watching kids playing in the neighborhood, and trees swaying in the breeze. My orange, bewhiskered cat paced back and forth below the rainbow menagerie of cloth, his tail just brushing the underside.

That first week after sixth grade had let out, I decided to get things done. The first thing I decided, was to clean my room. The desk that should have been clear so I could do my homework was always besieged with crumpled notebook pages, old magazines, and Post-it notes I had forgotten to remember. My shelves overflowed with containers of little odds and ends: hair bands, books, coins, earring backings, and journals. I took my whole room apart, and then put it back together. I began to put together all the pieces of my life, that had fallen apart over that year of middle school.

With each thing I accomplished, pride blossomed inside of me. I finally got to reading the whole book "Little Women", and reread the whole Harry Potter series. I called up my friend and biked with her to get ice cream cones, just so we could spend some quality time together. I played my brother at the computer game that I always refused to be a part of, and I helped my sister study. I played my golden flute until my lips hurt. I did all the things I had been dying to do.

Why do I remember those things, but I don't remember other little moments? It's funny the way the minds works; it's funny how people forget experiences they thought would always stick with them. I wonder what ten years from now I'll remember about this year, and what I will forget. Hopefully I'll forget all the embarrassing moments, but with my luck, those will be the memories ingrained my mind forever. At that moment, though, I simply concentrated on enjoying the first week of summer, and restarting my life.

6th Grade: Digging Myself A Hole

2010-07-02T16:38:00.000-07:00

If you’ve ever faced a middle school depression, you’ll know it’s bad.

Not long after my birthday I suddenly became overwhelmed with what I think of as my “chronic 6th grade depression.” I felt like, no matter what, the future was bleak. I would never become a famous author. I would never be outstanding. I would always be poor, average Christine.

As my depression progressed I started sighing all the time. My mom noticed, and asked why I was sighing so much and I simply shrugged. I became disinterested in everyone and everything. For that whole school year, I sort of “shrank in to my shell”, and hardly spoke to anyone, nor cared if what they thought about me.

I became tired all the time, going to bed at 7:30 pm, and not being able to fall asleep because of insomnia. My face became covered in stress-related acne, and I was constantly getting canker sores in my mouth. I was a wreck, and no matter what, nothing could pull me out of the hole I was digging.

At times I would cry myself to sleep, because I was so sad about my depression. Deep sadness and confusion filled my mind, consuming me. I didn't even know, really, why I was so depressed! I felt unbearably alone, with no one to talk to. I started walking around in a fog, with everything feeling like a dream behind a pane of glass. I was scared.

I realized after 3 months of depression that this situation was bad. Not just bad… dangerous. If I didn’t move on with my life, I would just wilt away! I stopped hiding behind my false “I’m fine” smiles, and started attempting to show real smiles. I thought of good things every morning, and before I went to bed. I started climbing my way out of the hole I had dug, back in to the real world.

6th grade, I can easily say, was the hardest year of my life. Through loneliness, depression, and fear, I ruined my year. To this day, my parents never have learned about my year of depression, nor do I plan on telling them about my days of weakness. However, I learned very strong life lessons through it all. I become positive and perpetually optimistic. I knew that no matter what, thing could be worse. I had faced worse times. Although, over the next year, I would occasionally stumble back into my hole, I always found a way to quickly climb back out. Depression would not define my being.

I started enjoying myself, being kind to others, and doing fun things. I started new hobbies and from then on vowed to “live life to it’s fullest” and follow my dreams. I started writing again, going outside, and seeing friends. The world was a beautiful place. From then on, though, I became a serious 6th grader. I had faced the deepest pits of depression and climbed back out. I was a survivor who had faced terrible times. My face and eyes were more mature, more knowledgeable of the world around them. I had grown up so much in a short period of time. For all you who have faced similar situations: never give up. The sun will come out tomorrow.

Fatherly Obsessions- The Quest For Hidden Gold

2010-07-01T13:42:00.000-07:00

In my family, everyone gets obsessions. On one day one of us may be living and breathing photography, and the next day we may have moved on to woodcarving. Our obsessions are neither healthy nor rational and they can even consume us for months at a time! Unfortunately, my dad has always been the very worst when it came to them...

It was a hot autumn day when my Dad proudly announced that he was going to embark on a mission to discover all the hidden treasures Minnesota had to offer. We gawked at him and rolled our eyes, until, the next day, he came home with seven metal detectors.

Everyone in my family got a metal detector (and my Dad got three- each good for different reasons) and we were dragged out every weekend (and many evenings in-between) for metal detecting lessons. My dad brought home videos on how to use the Garrett Metal Detectors efficiently, and subscribed to dozens of treasure hunting magazines. My mom was much more tolerant of his whole obsession than I ever would be- I think she was praying that the whole idea would just burn out. Unfortunately, his visits to the local Minnesota Metal Detecting Club just spurred him on. People at the club would come carrying precious gold coins, diamond-covered bracelets, and ancient, rare artifacts found from small parks in the Twin Cities. My Dad only ever found around 55 cents in change on each of his trips.

As months went by my Dad's metal detecting obsession got worse. In the winter he would be out in the frozen ground, sweeping his detector back and forth. Some days he would be gone until Midnight. My brother, sister, and I had stopped volunteering to go along, knowing that the most valuable thing he had ever found was a small, gold-plated bracelet (hardly worth anything). He spent thousands of dollars on buying new metal detectors (he currently has seven or more), and even bought an underwater one, so that he could metal detect from the edge of the lake. None of us knew how to make the obsession go away!

As the cold, snowy months of winter beat against our home it soon became too cold for even a crazy man like my dad to head out. He would look out the window longingly, sigh, and then go back to his work. When summer came the luster of metal detecting seemed to have gone, and he only headed out on his quest for treasure twice a week, always coming back with a few middle-aged coins and a disappointed look on his face.

Now, my dad has moved on to other things. I don't know whether I'm glad or not. The metal detectors are coated in dust in the garage, just like his cameras, machining tools, and other relics from old obsessions. There's only one thing I'm worried about... yesterday he said he might be interested in... biking.

The Sisterhood Federation to Buy Horses

2010-06-30T12:29:00.000-07:00

My sister had always been crazy about horses... always. She knew everything one person could know about horses- the difference between cream and cremello, the different gaits and breeds, and how ponies were proportionally different from horses. For years she had fantasized about owning a horse. At age five she had proposed to keep a horse in the garage. At age 10 she wanted to keep one at our farm in Wabasha. The scheme grew from there.

Not long after our 12th birthday we formed a top secret organization called the "F.B.H." If anyone asked we explained that FBH stood for "Fun 'Bout Horses." In actuality it stood for "Federation to Buy Horses." We had secret meanings in our clubhouse in the crawlspace, and I spent hours of each day compiling our weekly magazine for the FBH. The truth was, I couldn't care less about whether we got a horse not. I just had fun researching and writing the magazine.

My sister, I think, guessed that I wasn't really in to buying a horse, but she was glad that I helped. I was glad that when she was working on the FBH she wasn't obsessing about school and homework.

Soon, the FBH became more serious. Our parents had given a definite, unchangeable "no" to us owning horses, but we were still looking for loopholes. We soon found the perfect solution... miniature horses.

In case you're wondering, miniature horses are a special breed of horses (not ponies), that are under 36 inches tall. The smallest horse, named Thumbelina, was only 17 inches tall. They can live between 25 and 35 years old and have all horse-like characteristics. Personally, my thoughts were "what's the point in getting one if you can't even ride it?"

Before I knew it, though, I was deeply involved in searching for the perfect miniature horse. I went on websites like equinefinder, buyhorses, and agdirect and soon found the perfect one: an adorable, gray gelding named Skittles. My sister was smitten.

The next step on our mission, of course, was to talk to our parents. We spent the next few days pulling together our courage to ask them. I chickened out, of course (I mean, I didn't care about it anyways!), and finally it was my sister that plucked up the courage to ask. Guess what our parents said? You guessed it, no.

So, we decided to take it to the authorities... literally. My sister figured that if she could get permission from the city to keep a miniature horse in the suburbs, then maybe she could convince my parents. She fired away emails, letters, and 20-pages of evidence and essays as to why she should be allowed to keep a horse. Her friend, Natalie, even went to court over the issue! We argued the many issues why mini horses should be allowed- the fact that they were smaller than Great Dane dogs, that they made less of a mess and smell than most household pets, that they could be walked on a leash or used as service animals, and many other assets. Unfortunately, we still got a letter back a few weeks later... no. There reason? Horses were nuisances and no matter the size, were still "farm animals." End of story. My sister abandoned the horse scheme and now hardly even flips through her horse book or touches her 25 Breyer horse models.

I guess that's just the way it goes... We kids just have to wait until we're adults until we are listened to.

The Cataclysmic Birthday Bash

2010-06-29T11:42:00.001-07:00

Birthdays were always a major occasion at our house. It wasn't just one person's birthday - it was three! At a very young age my brother, sister, and I began saving up our allowances to buy each other gifts. We would buy them as soon as August, even though our birthday was November. We were so excited!

In sixth grade our birthday landed on a Saturday and we decided to celebrate with a major birthday bash. My brother invented 8 friends, my sister and I invited 12. We had a total of 20 kids coming to our house! We specifically requested that nobody bring presents, and spent weeks ahead of time planning out what games to play, whether we should play Lazer Tag in the gym, and whether anyone disliked chocolate. Soon, the day finally came.

Kids flooded in from all over the city. My mom, who was legendary for her cakes and cooking creations (she'd made a 3-story carousel cake, a four foot dragon, and many spectacular designs), created a huge cake that looked like Hogwarts castle. It was enough to feed everyone, and was absolutely coated with chocolate frosting and towers, with miniature Harry Potter characters posed in the grounds.

Our house was full of screaming, hyperactive kids. The girls started out gossiping upstairs and migrated into the gymnasium to screw around. None of us ended up doing the games we'd originally planned. We were having the time of our lives. Suddenly, though, our bliss was shattered as nine boys invaded the gym, armed with very large and very dangerous (so we thought) rubber band guns. Rubber bands exploded from the ends of their guns hitting all of our guests and leaving angry red welts. We screamed, ran and cowered, but could not get past the throng of attackers. It wasn't long before they'd shut the door to the gymnasium and locked us in. We pounded on the window, screamed, and finally sat around moping, waiting for an adult to notice that we were captive. For some reason, while we were locked in the gym, playing didn't seem like so much fun. Instead we spent the good part of an hour sitting around or banging on the door.

When my mom realized that three fourths of her guests were locked in the gym she was furious! Her face grew red and she marched down to the basement, barking at the boys and forcing them to apologize to each of us once we were freed. The boys spent the rest of the party in vengeful silence, hardly having a bite of cake, while my sister and my guests gloated triumphantly.

That twelfth birthday was the end of any famous triplet parties. Years later our friends still talk about it (some of them wistfully, others not), but our parents made a rule from then on: no more parties. Our mom still makes fabulous cakes (this year she made a fantastic, huge, orange 'pumpkin' cake, and before that she made a large treasure chest scattered with fake jewels), but we now have a private party at home, where we go around the room, each taking turns opening a present and picking out the presents for the next round. In our family we don't sing happy birthday (my mom hums it, but other than that, we are all terrible singers), but instead enjoy the wonderful meal, the opening of a million presents, and then a movie down in the basement (usually our favorite movie, Finding Nemo).

This year I'm hoping my birthday present will be a moped, but I can't make any promises. As for a graduation party in 4 years? Not a chance. My mom has sworn off parties for good.

Miss Stress-aholic

2010-06-28T12:37:00.001-07:00

To my dismay, the last lazy days of summer slowly slipped through my fingers like sand. Before I knew it I was shoved into middle school, where everything was new, loud, busy, and chaotic.
I tried desperately in my spare time to scratch together a story worth writing about, but began thinking negatively- balling up whatever I wrote or tearing it up. Not only that, my whole family was on edge. My mom, my dad, my brother... and especially my sister.
Every day after I returned from school with my siblings, my sister would start a screaming match with my mom about the smallest things- like forgetting to tell her about her violin lesson, or simply not shutting the garage door. It left every one in a bad temper for the rest of the evening, btt before long we began to think that maybe this wasn't so usual.
Every evening my sister stayed up past 11 pm working on homework. She stressed out about it, screamed about it, and blamed all the world's problems on the teachers. She would rant and rave about the national government recommended amount of homework, and how the teachers were horrible people that were out to get us. Worst of all, none of her behavior made any sense. She had the same high-potiential classes as my brother and I, so why weren't we swamped until 11 pm? We soon figured out why.
Every time a teacher assigned a small assignment- like asking us to get the weather predictions for the next 3 days, my sister would go overboard. She would make massive powerpoints, wall-size posters, and creations that took literally days to make. Once she made a poster for her orchestra teacher (extra credit only) on the "circle of fifths." The poster was over twenty feet tall and it cost over $100 in printer ink! It took her days to color everything and to write the Circle of Fifths in huge, fancy scripts. I was horrified. What's more, she demanded all the teachers give her extra credit for her efforts- whether they wanted to or not. Soon she had completely forgotten how to have a life outside of the 6th grade classroom. All she ever did was schoolwork. She made our lives miserable as she ranted about one thing or another, and soon she had created an ego for herself, a reputation, where she had to be the all-knowing genius.
My sister would sit up stiff as a board in her chair, nodding her head enthusiastically whenever a teacher spoke (which looked rather insane), and crinkling her brow and muttering "oh yes, yes, I see." to herself. She acted as if all eyes were always on her. Soon other kids in the school started assuming all three of us were genuiuses and would drop phrases like, "Wow, I aced this test- I probably did almost as well as the triplets" or, "I wonder if any of the teachers know anything about quantum physics.... the triplets would know."
Unfortunately, of all my tales, this is not one that can end with a happy moral. It has none. My sister has grown a little bit less odd when it comes to self-consciousness (no more head nodding), but she still continues to be 1st place know-it-all. I can't say one thing without her trying to correct me and she can't stand to ever be wrong. Not only that, she spends most of her time on wikipedia, looking up random trivia (you could ask about something very random- like, say, an Okapi, and she would be able to give you 10 random facts on it). All I can say is, though this started in 6th grade, it just continues. She takes out all her stress and anger on her family and all I can say is, I hope she survives high school (literally). I just don't know how this can go on!

Mountain Hypothermia

2010-06-26T13:56:00.000-07:00

Big, fat rain drops poured down my nose and into my mouth making me choke.
“You can do it, Durango. Keep going…” I whispered through blue-tinted lips at the horse limping beneath my saddle.
It was mid-June and I was at a ranch with my extended family in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina. I was definitely a horsey person, but when it came to riding in the rain, I was against it.
“Keep going, Durango. Keep goin’…” I chanted again, more for my sake than the horses, my fingers clinging to the worn, leather reigns.
A crack of thunder echoed through the mountains causing my horse to jerk in surprise, while lightning lit up the sky. I could hardly see through the pouring rain dripping in my eyes at my brother, sister, aunt, and cousins riding up ahead with the wrangler.
Rain poured down my t-shirt and drenched me to the bone. Within 30 minutes I was shivering, with my teeth chattering like maracas.
“I-It’s n-not c-cold enough to f-freeze to death is it?” I asked through chattering teeth.
“No.” My aunt replied, as she covered herself with her thick warm jacket.
For some reason I didn’t believe her. I looked up through the thick trees and felt dread as we continued to troop farther into the mountains, each step taking us further from the ranch.
“Well, gosh it sure is rainin’!” I heard the wrangler call, tapping his western cowboy hat.
My lips were shuttering too hard to say anything, as I curled over my horse, letting go of the reigns, letting any kernel of warmth heat me.
We continued to ride further into the mountains for another hour. The rain never once ceased- if anything it just got harder! I shivered so much I almost fell out of the saddle. My mind went blank and I kept chanting over and over again, “Keep going, Durango… keep goin’….” As if somehow it were a magic spell that would make me warm again. In all my wildest dreams, I had not imagined my trip to a ranch to end up like this.
Never had I been so cold before in my life. I thought back to all the Minnesota snow storms, and not once was I this cold, even when we had -40 degree weather! Rain poured down my nose and I felt like crying, except that would make me even wetter. I couldn’t die now… I couldn’t…. I had so many dreams ahead of me….
Suddenly I heard a buzz and a metallic voice, “Corey, ya there?” A voice asked, from the radio clipped to the wrangler’s belt.
“Yah, Donna, I’m here.” He yelled back in to the radio, over the racket of the pouring rain.
I couldn’t hear her full reply, but relief flooded over me as the voice said, “Come home….. Trot…”
I shivered more and more and the wrangler turned around to speak to our group.
“We’re heading back!” He yelled.
“H-how long ‘till we get back?” I asked, my voice trembling with the effort.
“One hour and fifteen minutes.” He replied with his western accent.
My heart sank. I was going to die for sure now.
My hair was drenched and hanging down my back. Even my horse seemed weary. His feet slipped in the mud and I shuddered uncontrollably. Soon my brain seemed to just leave the present and hide inside. My mind wandered to the past, thinking about random things- my fifth birthday, the time when my brother and I had experimented in the kitchen, our family trip to the Leaning Tower of Pisa… I began to feel odd moments of blissful warmth. A wave of heat would wash over me, and I would almost feel hot, and then suddenly the cold would hit me again, sharp as a knife. Was this Hypothermia?
All the confidence and hope had left me. Another hour in this rain and I would die. I knew what it felt like now to have a real adventure, and it was terrible. I prayed to any higher being, to please let me live. I began to slip out of my saddle and I couldn’t move my fingers. Durango, my tall, ugly brown horse, was smart enough to follow the horse in front of him without me holding on to the rains. We sloshed through puddles and walked through dripping bushes and trees. Sometimes Durango would sense me weakness and try to stop for a snack on some good tasting leaves. I had no strength to pull him away. Instead I croaked,
“Keep goin’ Durango…. Keep goin’… until he moved on.”
I almost slipped out of the saddle as the bitter rain ran down my face and over my chattering, blue lips. I had never known what real teeth chattering was until now. I knew I was dying.
Nobody else on the ride seemed to notice me freezing to death, nor show any sympathy. While I was freezing on the saddle with simply a t-shirt and shorts, my fellow riders had dressed in rain ponchos and sweaters. As we meandered down the mountain I thought of all the things I would sacrifice right then just to be some place warm and dry. I’d give almost anything.
We soon crossed a familiar gurgling stream and passed by a large wood pile. We were within 30 minutes of the ranch, but I was afraid I wouldn’t last that long. The wrangler called for us to halt and announced that we “cannot continue until the ranch staff has brought their stop signs to make sure there is no traffic on the road.” I couldn’t believe it! God help me!
“Let’s just go!” I whispered as loud as I could. Nobody heard me over the loud rain. They weren’t even shivering.
A sudden loud crack of thunder caused my horse to bolt forward and it took all my remaining strength to pull him to a stop a few yards away. His fur was sopping and I could hardly clamp the reigns with my hands. Suddenly, another blissfully warm Hypothermia heat wave washed over me, before stabbing me with the icy cold. My fingers couldn’t move and I could hold it in no longer. I began to sob.
Nobody heard me and it made no difference, my face was already so wet. My family was just going to let me die out here? What would they think when they found out my horse had carried my dead body back to the ranch? Would I wake up in the hospital? Or not at all? I hated waiting.
Rain poured into my mouth as I let out harsh, jagged sobs. The 10 minutes we spent waiting for the staff with signs felt like hours. Cars whipped by on the nearby road and I felt like pleading to them, “Help me!” If I survived this, I swore, I would never go anywhere without my jacket.
The wrangler finally got a call on his radio telling us it was clear to cross the road. We walked painfully slow, while I chanted “Keep goin’ Durango.” Lightning streaked across the gray sky and thunder cracked like the noise of a cannon. Suddenly, when I thought my vision was going to black out for good, my prayers were answered.
A huge white van with the ranch’s name on it pulled up by us.
“Anyone need a ride?” The driver asked.
“I do.” I called.
Nobody heard me.
“I do!” I yelled again, hoarsely.
The man jumped out of the van and practically carried me off Durango’s back and lifted me into the van. I was shivering madly. I was so, so cold. A few other ranch guests from different trail rides were also in the bus, but they weren’t shivering. They stared at me as I tried to control my shivering.
“Are you okay, honey?” One lady asked.
I nodded, unable to speak between shivers. The truth was I wasn’t okay, but I wasn’t about to admit it. Everything had to be okay now.
“Are you could or nervous?” The lady asked, referring to my shivering.
Between shivers and teeth chattering I managed to spit out shakily, “c-c-cold.”
I was drenched and now, so was the seat.
“Come sit up here, I have a heater.” The driver ordered. I nodded and managed to stagger up to the front seat and warm my hands by the heater. Stiffly and sorely they began to move again.
“You’re shiverin’ so much your teeth will fall out.” One southern lady commented.
We drove up the lane past my family riding back to the barn and towards the guest cabins.
“Which cabin is yours? We’ll drop you off there.” The man asked.
“C-closest…. To the lodge.” I managed to stammer.
“Okay, make sure to take a nice warm shower.” The driver ordered.
My boots were filled to the brim with freezing water and I studied my fingers to make sure they didn’t have frostbite. Could you get frostbite if there wasn’t snow or frost? The man let me out by my cabin and I stumbled on shaky legs to the lodge. Rain was pouring down still and I stumbled to the front porch, dumped out my boots, and went straight to the shower and turned the hot water all the way up.
The heat of the water burned me but I didn’t care. My skin turned a violent shade of red, though when I stepped out of the shower, I was still shivering. I put on dry clothes and wrapped myself in every blanket in the cabin, before curling up into a ball and awaiting the return of my family.
It took hours before I felt completely warm again. My family was skeptical about my coldness and never truly seemed to believe that I could have gotten Hypothermia after spending three hours in the mountains in the rain. But I know the truth. I trust my instinct. Besides, I kept my promise. I now carry my sweatshirt jacket around with me everywhere.

Unicycles and Pythons

2010-06-25T13:11:00.000-07:00

Did you know that people have pet snakes? Specifically, nine-foot-long pet pythons? Yah, I didn't know that either until that day two years ago.

It was a perfect summer day. A light breeze blew through the Minnesota Cottonwoods, causing cotton to float on the wind like snow. My sister and I decided to celebrate the lovely June weather by going unicycling through the park. We mounted our one-wheelers, ignoring the gawking stares of people passing by, and slowly descended down the asphalt trail towards the park. I peddled a little bit farther ahead of my sister, my mind wandering with thoughts of picnics, volleyball tournaments, and other summery things. Suddenly, I heard a scream... and not just any scream. This was the scream of ultimate, terrified horror.

I sprinted so fast on my unicycle towards the noise that I ended up crashing off my unicycle. I rounded the bend and found my sister staring in the long grass at... a giant snake.

"Oh my gosh!" I screamed, instinctively reaching for a pencil in my pocket (you have to record the exciting stuff you know). The pencil was gone, though, because it had fallen out of my pocket on my sprint over here. Terror and amazement filled my entire being. My mouth dropped open like a cartoon character's.

My sister didn't move, but instead continued to gawk at the snake, and I soon realized that this snake was not moving. In fact... it was dead. The huge, muscular body of the nine-foot python (lying in an average, suburban park) had been chopped to bits by a lawn mower. I gagged as I stared at the silky, scaly, green pieces and wondered if maybe the lawn mower driver had chopped up the snake intentionally... I mean, how could you not notice a nine-foot-python in the grass?

I wished I had brought a camera, and the rest of the ride home my sister and I tossed possible scenerios back and forth as to what the snake was there for.

"I think it escaped from a zoo transporation truck." My sister suggested.

"No," I said, straining as we unicycled up the hill, "I think it was someone's pet- that escaped after eating the owner."

I had heard of that happening before. One lady had let her python up on her bed and finally, it just decided to eat her.

For once we didn't notice the awkward stares of people going past as we cycled home. Unicycling seemed only half as amazing as an escaped python. I decided, maybe this was a sign.... maybe it was time to get back to finding some adventures.

The Crazy One Wheeler

2010-06-25T10:18:00.000-07:00

How could I continue on my quest for writing experiences after what happened last time? After my last "adventure" I needed to lay low for a while, to avoid arousing any suspicions. My parents, who never commented on my swollen ankle or scratched arms, seemed to think it perfectly ordinary as I spent the next few days scribbling down notes in my notebook about my "run-away adventure."
I decided that, rather than embarking on another adventure yet, I should maybe just try something new. Another writing experience... but not as dangerous. I bought a unicycle.
First of all, before I continue, I should share one teensy fact with you. I have a gymnasium built on to my house... yes, a real, athletic gymnasium. It isn't as large as school gyms (about half the size), but it contains a basketball hoop, painted lines on the floor, and cold, white concrete walls. This is where I embarked on my unicycling quest. I spent hours every day struggling to get on the strange one-wheeled contraption. I tried pushing it against the wall, jumping on, throwing it against the wall (not recommended), and screaming.
My bare feet hurt from pressing them hard on the pedals, my legs got covered in black and blue bruises from falling down, and my lungs hurt from screaming in frusteration. It was on my third day of attempting to unicycle that my sister, Kelly, came down the stairs into the gymnasium. Her face was red and sweaty from playing soccer outside, and pulled back in her typical too-tight ponytail.
"You look... annoyed." She said cautiously.
"Yah because this stupid unicycle is impossible to ride!" I yelled, kicking the thing.
"Maybe I could help..?" She suggested.
I spent the next few days with my sister's help, as she supported my own arm and I lurched around on the pedals, feeling like the seat would fly out from under me at any minute. Why was I learning to ride a unicycle? Should I just give up? I decided unicycling was a neccessity if I wanted to be adventurous.
Before I knew it I was unicycling like a pro with the local Unicycling Club and guess who else unicycled with me? My brother and sister (of course, if I ever did something cool, they had to copy me). It wasn't until a little while later, when we'd perfected the art of riding unicycles on our stomachs and riding backwards on seven-foot-high Giraffe Unicycles that something very interesting happened.

The First Adventure: The Nighttime Escape

2010-06-24T16:32:00.000-07:00

I slowly peeled back the covers of my bed and gingerly placed a trembling foot on the floor. It was past Midnight and the house had finally settled down. My brother and sister had long since said g'night and gone to their separate rooms, my parents had turned out their lights. The only sound was my dad's eery snore drifting down the hallway.
Placing both feet on the floor I slowly curled into a standing position and tiptoed around my bed, towards the window. My body was coursing with adrenaline and excitement. I had inconspicuously left the blinds open before going to bed (pretty clever, I thought), so that I wouldn't wake anyone by pulling them up. Sweat beaded on my forehead and a knot of apprehension sat like a rock in my stomach. When the floor creaked a minuscule amount I froze, waiting to hear my parents getting out of bed to check on me... But nothing happened.
Breathing again, I reached forward to the latch on the window and slowly, quietly pulled it up. Every noise I made sounded as loud as a foghorn. What was I doing this for? Was this a stupid idea after all? Probably, but I couldn't give up now.
I began to slowly push the window open, feeling the cool summer breeze on my face. Outside the trees cast eery shadows on the backyard and crickets sang at the top of their lungs.... shoot. Fear filled my stomach as I realized all the noise the darn crickets were making. Taking one last look at my bedroom I pulled myself over my window ledge and onto the not-so-firm ledge of roof. My legs wobbled with fear and excitement as I stared triumphantly around at my surroundings. Suddenly I heard a "snap!" behind me. Turning my head I realized I had just made a deadly mistake... I had pushed the window closed.
I realized I was locked outside, in my pajamas, wearing only socks, on a school night. Dread filled my stomach as I looked down on the silent, shadowy backyard. Not only that, I was high on the roof. The second floor to be exact. I became dizzy as I realized that I had not planned ahead enough to figure out a way down from the roof... and I was scared of heights. I made a mental note not to try this stunt again.
What should I do? What should I do? I inched along the four-inch ledge on the roof until I came to a slope leading up to my brother's room. Should I go up there and knock? No, of course not. He would tattle immediately. Should I sit here until morning? Definitely not. I had no idea how I would be able to explain my predicament. I mean, the whole reason I'd come up here was to have an adventure. Writers need to have experiences to write about, so I needed to create my own. I mean, how many books have you read where the main character has to sneak out of their house? Lots. I mean, in basically every romance novel the girl sneaks out to meet some boy.
I edged over to the ledge of the roof and peered down at the ground beneath me. I could just barely make out a bush in the darkness. Could I, just maybe, land softly enough if I jumped on it? I thought back to all the times my brother and sister had told me I was an idiot. Maybe they were right.... oh well, best not to think of that. I took a deep breath and leapt off the roof. For a minute I was flying... flying... flying..... oof! I landed with a splintering crash that seemed loud enough to wake up the entire neighborhood. My ankle twisted awkwardly, my arms and face became scratched and tangled in the branches, but hey.... I was alive! I crashed through the branches and emerged from the bush, just in time to trip over a gnarled root and crash to the ground. I lay there panting, aching, and holding a strong grudge against gravity.
I lay on the ground for a minute, my brown hair tangled with leaves, my striped yellow pajamas covered in dirt, and my body covered in scratches and bruises. I could see the ledge above me that I had jumped off of, and above that, a full yellow moon. Stars twinkled above, as if laughing at me and I was half tempted to stick my tongue out at their merriness.
Clawing at the ground and pushing myself to my stocking feet I looked around. The trees cast dark, scary shadows. Odd creaks and croaks echoed in the back round and suddenly... I heard a growl. I was freaked out, I almost screamed. In the darkness behind a fence was my neighbor's dog- a big, black friendly mutt... who obviously didn't recognize me. His growl switched into a cacophony of loud barking. He sounded absolutely hysterical, if dogs could. I decided that now, more than any, would be a good time to make a run for it. I ran from the backyard, narrowly missing colliding with a tree, and raced into the front yard, leaving the neighbor's dog yelping far behind me. I decided there was no way I could get back inside without being noticed, unless I started a fire and caused a Chinese Fire Drill. I'd asked for an adventure, so I guess this is what I got. I mean, what did I expect? Did I think I could just climb out the window, go on a little stroll (in my stocking feet, mind you), and then climb back into my room and go back to sleep (and be fully rested for the test at school tomorrow)? I guess my planning- ahead needed some work.
I wandered through the dark-and-foreign front yard and stared longingly at the locked door, before meandering to a nearby pine tree and curling up under its long, hanging branches. A-student by day, adventurous writer by night... that's me. What would the kids at school say? Nothing, probably, because most likely I'd be dead and killed by my parents before I could go to school.
I drifted in and out of sleep on the hard, pine-cone covered earth as the crickets and birds sang at the top of their lungs. At times I wanted to strangle them. Why do birds sing so loud anyway? The sun was starting to rise when I suddenly came-to and remembered that 'oh yah', I was still locked outside in my pajamas. I just prayed my mom wouldn't open my room door to find the bed empty. What would she do? Call the cops?
Suddenly I heard the familiar rumble of the garage door opening. I couldn't believe my ears. Why was the garage door opening at 5:30 in the morning? Was it a miracle? I peered out from the long, bushy pine branches to see my mom slowly trudging out into the driveway, pushing our large black trash can ahead of her. Could it be? Could it really be? It was Tuesday- trash day! This was my chance. As soon as my mom had passed on her way to the end of the driveway I ducked out from under the branches and sprinted as fast as I could into the garage. I didn't even look back. My breathing was hard, adrenaline pumping through me, and I realized that somehow my luck had held. My mom hadn't seen me. I quietly opened the door to the house and tiptoed inside and down the hall. Everyone else was still asleep. Cautiously climbing up the stairs two-by-two (and avoiding the creaky ones), I ducked into my bedroom and let out a sigh of relief. It was almost time to go to school anyways, so I opened my closet and grabbed my clothes for the day.
When I headed downstairs at six a.m. for breakfast my mom looked like nothing had happened. All she said was a simple,
"You look like you've had a hard night." and grabbed me a box of cereal.
When my sister came down a few minutes after me she gave me a strange look and pulled a leaf out of my hair. None of them seemed to notice my bruised, swollen ankle or the scratches across my face and arms that I had tried so hard to cover up.
To this day they have never found out about my little nighttime adventure, and I'm hoping you won't tell them either. After all, every writer needs her share of experiences, and I just went to find mine on my own.

My Brilliant Plan of Action: A Quest

2010-06-24T15:10:00.000-07:00

That summer before sixth grade, my life changed. In that small jump between elementary school and junior high I aged a decade. Suddenly, my life seemed short. I was old. I wasn't famous yet. I would soon be heading to middle school... then high school... then college.... then what?

I realized if I wanted to become somebody unique, someone different, I had to get started now. I realized that, more than anything, I wanted to become a famous author.

Ever since I was a little kid I'd always had a passion for writing. I didn't just write every once in a while- I wrote all the time. Writing was my life. I created dozens of picture books by the age of three, I graduated to short stories by the age of six, and by the time I was nine, I was already working full-out on a novel (the longest I ever got was 75-typed pages in size 12 font before quitting). In my mind no profession was more noble than that of an author. I imagined they spent all day in high turret towers scrawling down their wisdom, with story ideas coming to them like rain drops in a storm. Not only that, authors achieved the ultimate fame. Not only did they have their words read by everyone, but they also had their names in printed on book covers, their words sung in to songs, their books created into movies... they could also make a lot of money. To me it seemed like a way of immortality. A way to stay in the world even after you were gone. I wanted to be like J.K. Rowling, J.R.R. Tolkien, and Dr. Suess.

And so, that summer before sixth grade, I decided that in order to become a writer, I needed to gain valuable experiences. How could someone write an adventurous fantasy story about villians, love, sword-fighting, and danger without ever experiencing themselves? I created a plan.

I needed to have the most exciting, unsual life I could have before high school. I needed to have something worth writing for.

The obvious question: "What's it like being a triplet?"

2010-06-23T15:07:00.000-07:00

When I was a little kid I never really noticed I was different than the others. I never noticed how every adult payed attention to me, I never noticed how surprised people were when they found out I had two siblings the same age, and I never thought it odd to have a brother and a sister that stuck to me like glue. In my mind that was normal. I was a triplet, but so what? I was just another average kid, wasn’t I? Wrong on both accounts.
You see, being a triplet is not at all like it appears. Many people blow it off, saying, “Oh it’s just the same- except you are in the same grade as your siblings”, but this is not true. If I could give one word to say what it’s like being a triplet, that word would be “shared.” When you’re like me, every day of your life is shared. Your school is shared, friends are shared, your birthday is shared, even your parents are shared. The few times when you are completely alone are so rare that you don’t know what to do with yourself. Secrets are shared (because your siblings can always pry them out of you), blowing out birthday candles is shared. In other words, my whole existence is shared.

When you’re a triplet you…
1. Are treated special from the day you’re born
2. Share your birthday with 2 others!
3. Don’t know how to be alone.
4. Have trouble not relying on your siblings all the time.
5. Have trouble being motivated to make friends- I mean, you’ve always got 2 automatic ones!
6. Get mixed up with your siblings all the time (even when you’re fraternal!)
7. Fight with your siblings all the time (just like everybody else).
8. Share your classes, school, sports, classes.
9. Have trouble being stereotyped by the way your siblings act.
10. Have a competitive streak (at least when it comes to your siblings).
11. Get compared all the time.
12. Get asked awkward questions about your birth!
13. Share everything!
14. Are never given special attention from your parents- you’re never an ‘only child’.
15. Have to ride in a 3-kid stroller as a tottler.
16. Sometimes are so similar to your siblings it scares you! (Like getting up in the morning and wearing the same clothes as my sister!)
17. Can almost read your siblings minds
18. Get tons of gifts from people you don’t know, just because they remember you as a baby.
19. Are fawned over by everybody (at least as a baby).
20. Give your parents trouble when trying to find a babysitter.

Hear the word “wow” a lot.

So, who am I?

2010-06-22T14:40:00.000-07:00

Who am I? I am Christine, a 14-year-old triplet, and if I could give this blog a longer name it would be called "Being A Triplet: My Crazy Quest To Have More Experiences To Make Me A Famous Author, and Make Me Unique From My Siblings."

You see, this blog is my story. It tells about my crazy life over the past few years, and how I've had the craziest, scariest adventures simply to give me experiences I would need to write a great book. Although I primarily write fantasy, I guess you could call this "my life book" in a way. You'll hear about my run-away attempt, my near-death experience with Hypothermia, my misdiagnosis living in a hospital for 1 month, and my adventure in South Africa (where I met a guy who'd lived off road-kill his whole life)!

I don't mean to give away too much yet. Let's get started!