"If you kids don't knock this shit off, I'm pulling Belly Button Strings!" My father bellowed down the hall with a twinkle in his eye and a smile in his voice.
The sound of my dad's threat elicited pure terror that sliced through my five-year-old brain. "Oh no! Not the Belly Button String."
My wide-eyed cousins who are not aware of the fact that every child has this particular body part, look to me for guidance, since it was my dad that promised the removal of said string.
We were tearing through the house with sheets over our shoulders, scarves around our necks, paste jewels, and cardboard tiaras on our heads and very little else, except perhaps my mother's lipstick.
Squealing our glee as we chased each other playing a superhero's game of tag. I think we all wanted to be Wonder Woman, but of course there can't be three Wonder Women, only the fastest among us would get the honor.
We tumbled over furniture, bounced off door frames, overturned a few plants and let out enough decibels to raise the dead, in only the way three small girls can do.
But, when I heard my dad threaten Belly Button String removal, I knew my goose was cooked. The time for play had come and gone. I blanched, grabbed my cousins by their hands and dragged the three of us to my room in absolute silence.
"We can't play loud anymore." I whispered.
"Why not?" They whispered back.
"Well, it's a long story."
"Tell us, Tell us!!" They insisted in full listening mode.
We crawled under my covers, huddled together with the family's torch light clutched in my hands.
The gallon sized orange plastic case that housed a battery the size that fit a compact car, glowed bright enough to shine through the covers, light up the room and possibly the night sky.But all it did for us was brighten up my patchwork quilt from the inside out enough to make me squint.
In this serious manner, I imparted the solemn wisdom of a child that has been righteously buffaloed.
"Did you know, that if someone pulls out your Belly Button String, your butt will fall off?"
Gasps from my audience. And a few double handed grabs to protect butterfly covered rear ends.
"Yeah, I promise it's true! A week ago, I was practicing my Annie song, you know the one where they have to climb the train bridge? I had stacked a dining chair on the couch, and a step stool on top of that. Daddy saw me, and he said that was it. I was too busy, and he needed to make sure I couldn't run around for a while.
So, he held me down on the couch, and pulled my Belly Button String out!"
More gasps from my cousins.
"Did it hurt?" "Did your butt fall off?" "Was it bloody?"
I nodded furiously to all of the above. "It didn't hurt but the string was a little red.Did you know that blood smells like ketchup?"
"Really?? Wow!"
"I sat on the couch for an hour, hanging on to the cushion, because I was too afraid to get up. My butt felt loose, and I didn't want to find out if it would really fall off."
What happened?! How'd you get it attached again?"
"I begged my dad to put it back, so he did, and then I could get up. He told me not to run around for a whole day, because the string had to finish reattaching to my butt."
"Does your mom know? Can she pull it out too?"
"Mommy was laughing too hard and couldn't get a good grip on my belly. She gave up, but if I start yelling, she says she'll get Dad to pull it out again."
My cousins nodded solemnly, and we finished the weekend playing quietly in my room and saved the screeching for outside. The threat of Belly Button String removal, always present in our heads when my dad would squint at us a certain way.
Forty years later, dad came down from Alaska to visit his three-year-old grandson and spend time in our midwestern family roots.
My boy was racing around the house, practicing his high notes, yelling his joy to the world, careening off corners, jumping on the couch running his hot wheels car up and down Papa's beard.
Papa would catch him, groan loudly and then toss him away, to peals of glee and hysteria. This happened more than a few times one evening, then he looked at me with a familiar glint.
He said to me with a side eye full of sparkle and a low off hand tone, "You got any butcher's twine, and ketchup? I think it's time to find his Belly Button String."
Ahh, the joys of scarring the next generation with a well-placed Gotcha.