The Sisterhood Federation to Buy Horses

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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?"

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?

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!