I was never afraid of monsters as a child. They didn't exist, and never mind what the internet tries to tell you - they still don't. Shoving granny's old dentures in the mystery meat you found behind the taxidermist's and dropping it on a beach somewhere does not a monster make. That's just a fun activity for a blind date and nothing more.
Mummies were always slightly more probable, but they're in Egypt. The only old mummies we might have kicking around Canada would be the frozen variety. By the time one of those things thawed enough to reanimate it would be a heap of soggy, moldering mush, and nothing was getting past our dog smelling that deliciously putrid. The biggest worry there would have been whether or not reanimated corpses are a bit salty. Our dog couldn't handle salt, so that being the case they could have posed a legitimate risk to our rugs, or at least they would after they had cycled through the digestive system of their welcoming committee.
Wolfmen could happen in North America, but anyone with a dog knows how to handle one of those - just put some peanut butter on it's back and call the pound while he's trying to lick it off. As for vampires, that threat I've never understood at all. Kick 'em in the teeth. Now what are they going to do, turn into a bat and poop in your hair?
That's not to suggest that I was a brave child, though. I'd lie awake at night trembling under the covers too, but it wasn't horror movies that gave me nightmares. It was diaper commercials.
I used to love tormenting myself with the fear that my mother might have allowed me to have been used in diaper commercials when I was a baby. The efficiency of youth allowed me to skip over hindrances of probability that might have compromised my terror, like the fact that we'd never lived anywhere near anywhere that diaper commercials are produced or the fact that my mother had never said anything along the lines of "Sweetie, remember that time I let everybody in the whole wide world look at your naked bum?" It's good that she did never say that. If she had I might still be rocking in the corner, sucking my thumb.
Very neurotic, yes, thank you for noticing. I would actually mind having my fully blossomed into womanhood tush featured on national prime-time now less than I would have minded knowing anybody anywhere, other than my parents or pediatrician, had seen my fresh from the oven buns when I was a child. Of course I'd love to blame this neurosis on my parents - it's the done thing - but try as I might the finger just won't point there. They believed in conforming to the standard guidelines of legal decency, but that was more path of least resistance than it was an exercise in morality. Wearing clothes sort of just fell under the general blanket of it keeps the neighbours happy, so why question it? There was never any suggestion that being naked was in any way shameful. I very cleverly devised that little self torture all by my self.
That's why I'm glad my mother didn't have a blog. I like reading about other people's children's epic poos - we all know the rule: it's funny when you're not the one who has to clean it up - but I'm glad I'll never have the opportunity to read about mine. I'm just not that okay with myself I suppose. And I'm okay with that. Does that constitute a dangerous psychological paradox? If it does, watch this daredevil move: I'm okay with that, too.
I'm also glad legends of my epic poos won't be available for my kids to read. Or their kids. Come to think of it, I might be even more glad that my great great grandparents didn't have blogs, because I just might be less okay with reading about my grandparent's epic poos than I would be with the prospect of my grandchildren reading about mine.
Adults of tomorrow, good luck with your brave new world, and go forth without shame - we all know everything there is to know about your butts already anyway.
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