Jami the Firefighter

a random memory I was in my bedroom, and very little: 4, maybe 5 years old. I'd found an uninflated balloon and had been filling it up in the bathroom sink and hosing off the wall next to the door in my room. The balloon, red of course, was my firehose and I was a fireman (at the time, they still weren't saying firefighter.) The entry of my room had bare wood, no carpet, so I wasn't soaking the carpet. I happily "put out the fire" on my wall, dresser, door, floor, and probably a few toys. It was great, really. I think I might have found my calling. Little Jami, Girl Fireman! Until my mom walked in. I believe she went with the standard "What are you DOING??" I knew, even at that tender age, that my best bet here would be lying. Telling her I'd been firefighting would lead to bad things, I just knew it. My tiny brain churned and I blurted out: "I'm cleaning my room! I'm washing the walls!" Brilliant, and what's better? She bought it! My mother, apparently believing the best in me, said "Oh, that's so nice, but next time you want to clean, please let me know and I'll get you the right stuff to clean with." Sorry, Mom. I can only now appreciate what a horrible blessing it is to have a child with a great imagination.