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Things I Learned As a Child – Part 1

I was laughing with my family the other day about some of the silly things I did as a kid. This, of course, is an extensive topic. Later on, as I was thinking over it, I realized that many of my miniature disasters and tiny discoveries have imparted nuggets of wisdom. Perhaps you’ll find reason to chuckle along with me over the wonderful, silly, ridiculous, profound things a little girl’s experiences can lead her to conclude.

~*~

When preparing to blow a fluffy dandelion, don’t inhale with the dandelion close to your mouth.

Slapping the gym teacher is a mean thing to do.
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Mysteries should be written backwards; it helps to know the end before you write the beginning.
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Teenagers are very loud and very weird (but can be successfully ignored if one has a book to disappear into).
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Dads are the scariest—and funnest—people with whom to play hide and seek in the dark.
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Knowing to start from zero, not one, when counting laps gives you an entire lap in which to be embarrassed as you run alone and your classmates all sit down. (But then you get the satisfaction of them having to run one more lap while you are done.)
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Babysitters just don’t do it like Mom does.
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Standing up on your bike pedals to try to peer over a tall fence as you ride by results in scraped knees.
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So does biking too fast down a hill with gravel at the bottom.
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So does trying to ride back onto a raised sidewalk, after so courteously steering off to avoid pedestrians. Oh yes, and torn shorts may also be a by-product of such a stunt. (I cheated—this I learned as a teenager. But we teenagers do, on occasion, behave like children, so it still counts.)
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Fire drills are scary.
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Stepping on certain school hallway tiles and avoiding others does not prevent the next fire drill from occurring.
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Books are picture windows into countless worlds.
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Fruit juice, ketchup, water from the pickle jar, maple syrup, and other miscellaneous liquids combined do not a tasty beverage make.
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Sixth graders are big kids.
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The minute you enter first grade, kindergartners look tiny.
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My house does not have any secret passages. (Trust me, I looked.)
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The only mysteries to be had are ones like “The Mystery of the Missing Sock,” never “The Mystery of the Haunted Stairwell,” or “The Case of the Ancient Treasure Chest.”
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Mysteries of missing socks are not worth being paid two dollars to solve. They’re not even worth solving at all.
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Secret clubs formed with friends have a tendency to last no more than about two weeks.
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Crying does not make the history test go away.
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There is more than one flat-nosed bus in the world. (This deserves an explanation: My first day riding the bus to kindergarten, my dad told me to remember the number printed on the side so that I’d get on the right bus after school. In a panic, I told him I couldn’t remember that number all day. He said, “Okay, then just remember to get on the bus with a flat nose.” Little did we know the school had two flat-nosed buses. And of course I boarded the wrong one. Two buses were late delivering their children that day.)
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Swapping names and snowsuits with your friend during recess does not keep people from recognizing who you really are.
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Brothers don’t appreciate your hairdressing skills.
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Standing in the playground and waiting for someone to talk to you is a lousy way to make friends.
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Boys that chew pencils, or chase you around with boogers, or flick paint onto the back of your shirt . . . They’re just plain annoying.
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That little ditch that runs between two houses on your street is not a secret path. It’s someone’s property.
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Cycling barefoot in the rain is fun.
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Turning ten is a little bit sad because you’re leaving single digits behind forever.
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Every birthday party must have a theme, even if it’s as lame as “polka-dots and stripes.”
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It is possible to have more than one best friend.
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Best friends don’t have to live next door.
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Flip-flops are terrible running shoes.
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Riding the little red wagon down the gopher-hole-riddled hill—and letting your cousin steer—is maybe not the best idea.
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Welcome!

Well met, fellow travelers!

I suppose introductions are in order. My name is Tracey Dyck, and at the moment, all the clever ways I planned to succinctly introduce myself have scurried out the back window and left me with a blank page. So let’s start with the basics, in no particular order.

I am:

  • 19 years of age

  • Canadian

  • a homeschool graduate

  • a writer

  • a God-chaser

 

And now for some random facts.

I feed on words. The smell of spring is hope to me. My bookshelves are congested. I have awesome parents and three awesome younger siblings. I live in the Prairies. I read and write pretty widely, but fantasy is my homeland. I write because I need to, and because I hope that someone else needs me to. New notebooks call to me. I take pictures of shadows. I sketch. I am a slayer of evil dragons and a friend of good ones. I am an introvert. My space is organized chaos. I love the colors of the Caribbean, of watermelon, and of new leaves. Please take me to Narnia because I left my heart there. I love children. Dark chocolate trumps milk or white. Captain America is, without a doubt, my favorite Marvel superhero. Apparently my personality type is the same as Batman’s, though I fail to see many similarities. I laugh easily and cry easily. I am a paradox because a sunny optimist and a cynic coexist in my brain. I adore humor. I am a girl of strong convictions. Jesus is the difference in my life; He is my anchor, my shield, my fortress.

Now, what should you expect on this blog? Good question. Even I’m not entirely sure. But I think you’ll find a mix of the big and the small, the important and trivial. A blend of life and faith and anything story-related. I aim to post about once a week, but that schedule may change as I settle into it and find out what works.

Life truly is a grand adventure! I sincerely hope that this place will be a rest stop where you can brush off the dust of your travels, warm your hands by the fire, and find stories in the coals. I hope that this is an armory where you can sharpen your blade, shine your armor, and stock your quiver. Here is where our quests intersect. Let’s swap tales, remind ourselves of the light, and look for the story the Author is weaving in each of our lives. To the wanderers, the wayfarers, the voyagers—I bid you welcome!