Strawberry Bubblegum

Enid, Oklahoma. 1990. Me on my sweet Maui Huffy bike with purple and white handle bar streamers. I’m jammin’ along, most likely listening to New Kids on the Block on my pink WalkMan. In front of me is my neighborhood chum. The sun is warm, the breeze is ruffling the bits of hair that peak beneath my ridiculously cumbersome helmet. I wasn’t allowed to ride fast or far, but you better believe Mom made me wear a helmet. However, knee pads and elbow pads would have been a better investment.

I can almost tell you the thought process that was going on in my head, albeit, very slowly. I decided it would be funny and make a neat noise if I rubbed my front tire against the treads of besties back tire. It was not funny, nor did it make a neat noise. Instead, our tired interlocked and I earned a nickname that would stick with me for almost 30 years.

At 8 years old, I’m pretty sure the exact word out of my mouth was not fuuuuuuuck, but I guarantee you it was an age appropriate equivalent. My front bike tire can to such a sudden and abrupt halt that I flew over the handlebars and proceeded to skid across the warm pavement. My hands, elbows, knees and chin were bleeding, as was a four inch strip up my left thigh where my rubber handlebar removed the skin. I don’t remember crying. I just remember walking up to my neighbor’s front porch where she and my mom were sitting. Mom had her back to me so all she heard was, “Mom. Mom. MOM.” She kept shushing me and swatting me away because she was talking. Our neighbor’s eyes grew huge as she started to process what she was looking at. She made my mom turn and look at me and both started screaming and running around like crazy. Mom rushes me home, only to learn that we have not one single, solitary band aid in the house. By this point, I’m perched on the bathroom sink, bawling like a baby because everything stings. Mom calls neighbor, neighbor brings band aids. Buuut, neighbor has much smaller children and all she has are Mr. Bubble band aids. Now, I am covered head to toe in bubblegum pink bandages. Fast forward to my Dad coming home from work. His first reaction is concern, but Mom has assured him before he came in that I was fine. Then…he laughs. Hard and long. A lot. Bubble. My name is now Bubble. He laughed as he walked out the door to buy me ice cream. Because that’s how he always made me feel better. Didn’t matter if I was injured or sick with the stomach flu, he always asked, “Do you want Daddy to get you ice cream?” Bubble needed ice cream. To this day, at 36 years of age, 28 years after the “incident” I am still called Bubble by my Dad.