We only lived in that apartment for a year. Or less. Maybe it was 6 mos. Time is relative when you are five or six years old. When my son was little, he borrowed a video from another little boy who was about six. We told the other little boy we’d bring the video back in a week. Then nearly a month went by before we saw him again. When we gave him back his movie, I apologized for having it so long. The six-year-old was like, “Did you have it a long time?” and I explained, well we told you we’d bring it back in a week, and it’s actually been nearly four now. He was like, “Oh, okay.” I looked at his mom, and she was mouthing “He doesn’t know how long a ‘week’ really is.” See? Time is relative. At least it is relative to your understanding of time.

You know what is NOT relative? SCIENCE. Science is awesome. Science is power. And Science was my secret five-year-old superpower that no one knew about. When I wasn’t busy trying to keep my baby sister’s diapers clean, or middle sister from dumping out the cabinets or playing with knives and powder – when I actually had five whole minutes to myself, I did Science.

By this, I mean I conducted experiments. With household chemicals. In Dixie cups.

I have no idea where I got this idea, but I was fascinated with the idea of mixing different liquids and powders and trying to get a reaction. Sometimes I could get my concoctions to change colors, and that was cool. Other times, I could actually get things to bubble and that was awesome. Please note: I only conducted these experiments when my sisters were safely napping. Safety first, y’all.

I think about those experiments… how seriously I took them, and just shake my head with wonder. First of all, how did I not start a fire, asphyxiate myself, or blow something up? Well, that’s just prevenient grace. Secondly, why did I not continue to pursue some scientific discipline once I was actually in school where it was encouraged? If you know me, you’d probably assume it was all the rules. My husband will tell you: I have issues with authority. Perhaps once someone started telling me how to do something, and restricting my imagination, I just wasn’t interested anymore? You might think that. But you’d be wrong.   

Picture this: there I am, sitting at the kitchen table, hair pulled back into a ponytail (you know, for safety) pouring a plethora of household cleaning agents with no safety caps into paper Dixie cups, waiting for a reaction.  There was no limit to what I could do!  My favorite thing was to mix stuff up with Comet cleanser. It would harden nicely, and then I could store it with my other experiments. On the back of a closet shelf that only I could reach, and then only by dragging a kitchen chair into my bedroom. A bedroom I shared with the knife aficionado. Thank goodness, she never got into them. I instinctively knew that she was too little and my experiments were too precious. I never told anyone about them. They were just mine.

And then, one day, immediately after mom tied the knot down at the justice of the peace, that man, the one we used to see at the beach every weekend, and that I was now supposed to call “daddy” was packing up my room. He opened my closet door, to start packing up our clothes… and I knew I was a goner. He found all my experiments. Neatly lined up on the shelf. He pulled the first one down and stared at it, with a sort of “What the…?” look. I closed my eyes and prepared to be punished. Instead, I heard thunk.

My eyes flew open and I watched in horror as daddy proceeded to toss all my precious experiments into the trash. As if they were garbage! No questions. No retributions. Just thunk. “Wait! Wait, those are my…” thunk. Thunk. Thunk. He gave me one stern look that told me everything I needed to know. Daddy didn’t care two squats about my experiments. He didn’t understand Science. He was NOT moving that “junk” into His House.

And, just like that, my career in Science was over.