Doritos

Doritos

One of my mother’s favorite stories about me that she enjoys telling friends and family is the time I locked her and my father out of the house. When she explains it to everyone, it is a funny story and I become embarrassed. Embarrassment seems to be the typical reaction when your parent’s anecdotes have something to do with your younger self and you don’t remember those past actions at all.

My mother assures me that at the time of the ordeal, it wasn’t funny to her. Many incidents in hindsight become amusing, especially when it deals with the unpredictability of children.

            Because I was no older than two, I do not remember anything about the misadventure. It is a blessing that just about everyone is unable to recall memories from when they were a young child. The incomprehensibility of a child’s mind in an adult’s would be too much. Too confusing and invasive.

            Even though I couldn’t remember, I created the memory through what my mother told me.

            My parents were doing yard work in the backyard when I closed the kitchen door. The handle must have been locked because I know with certainty I didn’t climb the stepladder or hop onto a chair to turn the lock. I can’t recall if I was told that I closed the door with a loud slam or if my parents didn’t notice until they tried to turn the handle.

Who knew what I was thinking as I shut the door? I was the one who should know, but it was at that age that, when you think about it, you aren’t too sure you were even alive. Your life seemed to have started in elementary school since that was when your memory began to work. You have no proof of your existence before then except that you are alive now and your parents have embarrassing (possibly naked) pictures of you stored in photo albums, ready to be brought out to display to a potential mate.

It was as if I declared, “I’ve had enough of you people” as I defiantly closed the door.

Or maybe I had been trying to be helpful by not letting all the cool air out of the house.

After several minutes of panic, my mother broke the bathroom window in the master bedroom and crawled through the tight space. The window is no larger than two feet tall and two feet wide and I still find the act impressive whenever I look at it.

            When my mother got into the house, probably racked with unstable discomposure that women are instinctually inflicted with when separated from their child, I was sitting on the kitchen floor eating Doritos.

            It seemed as if that simple action of eating Doritos mocked my mother. It was her favorite type of chip. And there I was. Caught cheese-handed. While my parents were about to have panic attacks, I was stuffing my dirty face with a snack I cannot eat without remembering this story.

            Oddly enough, I can picture which cupboard I retrieved the Doritos from. It was near the kitchen door. Now it resides in the garage.

            Who knows what would have happened if my adventure had been longer? Maybe I would have found Fritos or some dip. I suppose I should be thankful for my mother’s quick thinking. I could have choked on a Dorito. The sharps edges of chips can inflict instant pain like paper cuts when you bite the chip just the right way.

            I have always wondered if the past antics of children describe their personality when they are older. My mother seemed to believe that one incident summed everything up.

            In any event, when I’m at home with my mom, eating Doritos from the bag, I tell her not to do any yard work.

 

Katie Becker