Trust issues

In 1996 I was 4. It was a pretty huge year for me. I moved to England, began my first year of school, made new friends, saw new places, and got my bedtime changed.
Previously, my bedtime had been a very strict 7:30pm. It was enforced by my older sister Sharah (who had clearly shown from an early age a great sort of defiance and bad behavior in order for her to receive such a terrible chore). However, as I was becoming a strong independent and grown 4 year old, my parents heeded to my prolonged, whiny pleas, and allowed me to stay up to a new and better bedtime of "half an hour to 8."
This new bedtime placated me for a good while, until I began to indignantly notice that I would be told, "bedtime! It's 7:30!" And then immediately after when I reminded them my bedtime had been changed, "uh, right, I mean, half an hour to 8! It's that. Now." You SNEAKY parents!

Consequently, from an early age, I was taught the value and success of manipulating young children, a talent which serves me well in my current employment. If this were a continued post about my marketability, you can guarantee it that "manipulating the blind" could be listed.

One large stumbling block for my client at work is his inability, or refusal, to eat regular food. Although he is nearing five, his parents still send baby food with him to school. Since I have begun working with him, his palate has expanded immensely, and he now eats chicken, fish, rice, fruit, bread, and other school lunch foods happily. However, this progress did not come immediately. I found early on that my client had a flat refusal to try any sort of new food, however, if that food found his way into his mouth, he would find that he liked it, and finish the dish. Such began the manipulation of a poor, defenseless blind boy. So many lunch times begin with my putting a new food behind a known food on a spoon, and offering the spoon handle to my client to hold, while my teacher looks on with fingers crossed. The spoon enters the mouth, we wait, he chews and pauses, we cringe, he continues to eat and motions for more. I get congratulated by the adults, and I wonder if this is some horrible form of betrayal. Sorry, buddy. We need you to eat!

Really, though, every form of relationship you have is some sort of manipulation. My sweet little puppy was easily manipulated from the beginning. The first trick we ever tried to teach her was a simple "sit." Sasha learned that if she were to sit upon command, she was immediately awarded with a delicious treat, and wonderful, kind praise. Unfortunately, she still hadn't learned to respond to any other sort of request. Therefore, my parents and I often found ourselves at the bottom of our townhouse's stairs, leash in hand, screaming for Sasha to come. At first we wondered if the poor puppy had some problems with her hearing, or if the house was just muffling our calls to her. Then father found a way.
One day as I stood in our foyer screaming for my puppy, dad came over and said, "watch this."
"Sasha!" He yelled up the stairs, just as I had done. Then, "Sashaaaaaaaa, sit!" We stood in silence for a moment before hearing a rapid "boom boom boom boom, click click click, thump thump thump" as Sasha jumped and ran from wherever she was hiding above us, skid down the stairs, and sat beautifully still right at my father's feet, tail wagging rapidly.

Of course, this is also, I think, how I have such a wonderful, serving husband. I have conditioned him into knowing that he will receive love, kisses, and praise when he feeds and loves me. I recommend you do likewise.

Moral of the story? Children, puppies, and husbands are essentially all the same.

Harry Potter: The Musical

In the summer of 2001 the world was a different place. America had not yet declared war on Iraq and terrorism, Dido, Shaggy, and Destiny's Child were collectively dominating the top 40, Warner Brothers Studios were in mid-production of the first Harry Potter film, I was 9 while my sister Sharah was 14, and together we were writing the beautiful, unpublished project entitled Harry Potter: The Musical.

Sharah and I kept our writings on lined paper in a two-ring binder. We used pre-existing songs from either Disney or our family's collection of hits from the '60s, in order to supplement pre-existing or plausible situations from the Harry Potter universe. It really was a work of genius. I do not still have the authentic papers, but I have the memories, and can only pray that the originals are protected somewhere in our parents' basement.

All these recreations have been done to the best of my ability and memory, and all ideas are the brain-rights of Melece & Sharah Meservy. A team so official I had to use an ampersand rather than the word 'and'.

Scene: The great hall. Ron and Harry are enthralled by the enchanted ceiling, floating candles, and hundreds of students. 

Harry: This, this is just, incredible.

Ron: I've never seen anything like it. It's like...

The two make eye contact before both breaking into song. 

H&R: A whole new world! A dazzling place I never knew! No one to tell us no,

Hermione clears her throat behind them.

H&R: Or where to go

Hermione clears her throat slightly louder behind them.

H&R: or say we're only dreaming.

Professor Mcgonagall appears suddenly to squash any dreams the boys may or may not have been having.

End Scene 

Scene: The dungeons. Dark and dusty. Severus Snape is stood at the front of a class of nervous looking first years, H,R&H among them. A fire is lit under a large cauldron which is bubbling ominously. Snape adds ingredients to the cauldron while mixing. 

Severus Snape: Fluxweed... knotgrass... lacewing flies, and skin of Boomslang are only the ingredients we need to complete this particular potion. Alone they are nothing to complete that which is needed in the subtle science and exact art of potion-making. To bewitch the mind and ensnare the senses we need... the magic words. 

Fog issues from beneath all the students' seats as music number appropriate lights flash. 

SS: Salagadoola mechicka boola bibbidi-bobbidi-boo
Put 'em together and what have you got
bibbidi-bobbidi-boo

Snape sashays around the dungeon, robes swirling. 

SS: Salagadoola mechicka boola bibbidi-bobbidi-boo
It'll do magic believe it or not
bibbidi-bobbidi-boo
Salagadoola means mechicka booleroo
But the thingmabob that does the job is
bibbidi-bobbidi-boo
Salagadoola menchicka boola bibbidi-bobbidi-boo
Put 'em together and what have you got
bibbidi-bobbidi bibbidi-bobbidi bibbidi-bobbidi-boo

End scene. 

Scene: Ginny Weasley lays across her bed on her stomach, fondling a photograph of Harry while addressing Errol who sits crumpled on her pillow. 

Ginny: He's just so wonderful. I wish he loved me back, but he doesn't even know I exist. I would do anything to get him to notice me, (sings) but mama says,

In bursts Molly Weasley accompanied by bedazzled back-up dancers with beehive hair styles. 

Molly: You can't hurry love
No, you just have to wait
She said love don't come easy
It's a game of give and take

You can't hurry love
No, you just have to wait
You got to trust, give it time
No matter how long it takes

G: Muuuuuuum. Not agaiiiin.

End Scene. 

Scene: Harry and Dumbledore sit on a table in the empty classroom holding the Mirror of Erised. 

Dumbledore: The Mirror will be moved to a new home tomorrow, Harry, and I ask you not to go looking for it again. If you ever do run across it, you will now be prepared. It does not do to dwell on dreams and forget to live, remember that. Now, why don't you put that admirable cloak back on and get off to bed.

Harry: Professor Dumbledore. Can I ask you something?

D: Obviously, you've just done so. You may ask me one more thing, however.

H: What do you see when you look in the mirror?

D: I? I see myself almost exactly as I am, you see,

Dumbledore stands and begins to tap dance across floor. 

D: I got rhythm
I got music
I got my man
Who could ask for anything more?
I got daisies
In green pastures,
I got my man
Who could ask for anything more?

End Scene. 

These are the only scenes I can remember in detail. I faintly recall "How Much is that Broomstick in the Window" and a song featuring Moaning Myrtle. But, you'll have to ask my sister. 

I was a normal child.

Marriage brings out a lot of secrets. You've bound your life to someone else's and, in spending so much time with this new human instalment, a lot of conversations happen.

If you're like me and you marry someone who you met as an adult, there is all of childhood and adolescence to discover and share. To me, this is a beneficial thing; although I share embarrassing facts of my past with him, Peter was never truly privy to personal crises I experienced as a youth.

For example, Peter did not witness the unfortunate year of my life which I spent as a Twihard (2007-2008, it was a dark time. I had just left my home town in England AND the Harry Potter series had ended. I think you can forgive me). Even though he now knows this terrible, dark secret, he can make fun of me based only on what I have told him, and thus what I myself am able to mock. I can confess that I printed off those really terrible Myspace style quotes all about Twilight, that I was involved in online groups where we tried to cast the Twilight movie (this was before such a thing existed), that I had not one, but two different Twilight hoodies that I wore regularly.

However,  if he was there witnessing it all, I don't know if our relationship would be able to exist.
Let's take a gander at the us in the parallel universe where Peter and I were friends as teens:

Peter: Heh heh heh heh. Remember when you used to compare everything in your life back to Twilight?

Melece: it was not that bad. I mean, yeah, I thought Edward was perfect, but-

P: I tried to ask you out, but you told me 'Real men SPARKLE,' and threw body glitter at me.

M:Yeah... that was... I thought I was funny. It was just a book.

P: No, I'm pretty sure you said that you would knew when you found "The One" when you woke up to find him standing watching you sleep.

M: I would never! I mean, well, maybe? I think I also experimented with hard drugs that year.

P: Yeah, okay. Whatever you say.

Thankfully, none of these things ever happened, and, thanks to extensive Facebook stalking on my part while Peter was in Japan, I know that he once harboured a crush on one of the Twilight characters, SO WE ALL HAVE FLAWS.

Still, thanks to my terrible habit of overindulging, Peter is often loaded with a plethora of blackmail worthy confessions from childhood.
One afternoon Peter was able to join me at my second job as a nanny to a 2 year old boy. The three of us were playing with Play-doh. As I loaded the classic Play-doh contraption where you push a lever and different shaped tubes of Doh comes out. This thing:

I think once you buy one jar of Play-doh, this materializes in one of your cupboards. 

The magical contraption loaded with fresh Doh, I pushed down on the handle and gleefully watched a star shaped strand emerge out of the bottom.

"You know," I tell Peter, "When I was little, I wished I had a giant version of the shape slide thing. You know this part?" I wave it at him, "That you put at the end." Peter looks at me inquisitively, but innocently, listening to my anecdote. I continue, "I wanted one I could attach to my bottom so that my poo would come out shaped." 

"What?" Peter chuckles almost breathlessly, like I have sat suddenly on his chest, "I don't- I, wow." He rubs both hands over his face.

"Oh," I say, now a little unsure of myself and this new confession which I had not thought would be two-handed-face-rubbing worthy, "Did you... not... ever want that?" 

"That is both the most amazing and disgusting thing I ever head in my life, Melly. I just, don't even know what emotion I should be feeling right now. Why did you want shaped poop?"   

"It seemed a worthwhile investment to me." 

"Wow." 

For the rest of the time that we spent with the Doh, Peter would exclaim, "shaped poop!" to himself, as though he just had never heard of anything that revolutionary or strange in his whole life. 

I'm still waiting for his childhood revelation that will make me guffaw. Mostly, I'm just in awe of how cool he was. Did you know that my husband once made a suit, tie, and vest combo out of duct tape? I married so out of my childhood league it is inspiring. 

Where is Thumbkin? Hint: in my mouth.

Little kids are illogical. They do things which just simply do not make sense to adults, and often I wonder if the things kids do even make sense to them.

When I was younger I had a lot of favourite things. One of the most important of those things was my left thumb. As far back as I can remember my thumb and I were best buddies, and to keep my best buddy safe and warm, I kept it in my mouth. It's the same reason that Peter wakes up with drool on his nose now; he is my buddy, and I must keep his nose safe.

My protecting my buddy with my mouth is not the illogical thing, that totally still stands up as a smart thing to do, I just don't know why my thumb was so important to me; it isn't particularly delicious, it doesn't know any jokes, and it doesn't even look very pretty. Regardless, that thumb was everything to me.

My deep love for my thumb was a fact that brought great shame to my parents and siblings. I was Troy Bolton in High School Musical, and my thumb was the musical that no one wanted me to be a part of. Clearly my family does not appreciate the importance of a young soul being allowed freedom to dance, sing, and suck... their thumbs! If I didn't have so much love for that finger of mine, I would be making bank in bribes, because I was offered everything under the sun in exchange for it. The problem with the bargaining was that with each new thing that was offered to me, suddenly my thumb seemed to be that much more worthwhile! You'll give me candy for my thumb? THIS THUMB MUST BE BETTER THAN CANDY! And so on and so forth.

Another family tactic was to instil fear in my little heart by telling horror stories about what would happen to me if I didn't stop sucking. Usually, these threats revolved around my teeth and how they were going to be ruined big time (they were), but sometimes people got creative. My uncle Dennis, who lost his thumb to a lawnmower when he was a teenager, told me he had sucked it off, showing a perfect example of how lying to children is an encouraged pastime and tradition of American adults.

You would think that fear would be a good motivation to stop my bad habit, but the thing about children is: they cannot see into the future. Sure adults can't either, but we're much better at it than kids. I can say to myself, if I push Peter down on the couch and attempt to stick my tongue in his nose, he will fight me, and I will probably lose. I have seen my future of that particular decision. That doesn't mean that I DON'T push Peter down and attempt to stick my tongue in his nose, it just means I now what will happen when I do. Kids can't do this. There's that study, by super smart scientists where children are put in a room with a marshmallow and told that if they don't eat the marshmallow in X amount of minutes, they will be given more marshmallows. Spoiler alert!!: many of the children do not make it to the more marshmallow stage. They have a very hard time making decisions based on their consequences. Even if something better or worse is waiting for them, usually they just stick to what is most immediately gratifying. Seeing as I was not swayed by the possibility of crappy teeth or a disappearing thumb in my future, I would hypothesise I would have finished the marshmallow before the scientist had left the room had I participated in that study.

When the bargaining and threatening didn't work, the punishments and plotting would begin.
One particular punishment dished out to me by my mommifer in cahoots with my paediatrician was The Glove. This glove was pink, with different coloured fingers. It originally stretched mid-forearm, but was now a Franken-glove and had the top end of a white tube sock sewed onto it so it could cover my entire arm. It was then attached by glove keepers (heaven bless the '90s) to the back of my shoulder, thus making the skin on my hand completely inaccessible to me, an innocent 4 year old. I was Franken-glove's prisoner, and I did NOT like it. I remember one afternoon, after a trip to the grocery store, Mommifer had put the Franken-glove in place, and left me under the supervision of Barney on TV in the basement (this was where the TV was, not, like, I was put in a dungeon or anything). While normally Barney was a great love of mine, I could not enjoy his escapades while my thumb-buddy was being smothered by Franken-glove, so I spent my allotted TV time gnawing at the glove towards my freedom.
My slow destruction of Franken-glove had to be kept secret, so I reserved all my gnawing for times in which I could be alone, and tried to keep the hole on the padding on my thumb so I could easily hide it in my fist. It was kind of like I was digging a tunnel out of my prison and hiding it behind a poster. I was a totally logical, glove eating 4 year old.

Eventually Franken-glove was defeated and I was free to fill my parents' hearts with shame once more.

Looking back on it, I have so many ridiculous stories about me and my thumb, as well as my refusal to take it out of my mouth. Eventually, my parents paid an orthodontist to glue a metal claw to the roof of my mouth to attack my thumb anytime it entered, so that was fun, but hey, it worked. I am now only sucking on popsicles (like a sane person - Peter bites his which makes my teeth hurt and my soul confused as to why we are married) and filling my parents' hearts with shame in other ways, but much less frequently, and usually interspersed with joy, like when they read how witty and funny I can be on the internet (Hi, Parents!!!).

I tried to find a picture of me with my thumb, but I guess it was a non-documented thing for those full 9 years (oh, the family shame!), so here's a picture of me with a lamb at my thumb sucking age. Look at that awesome overbite.