Story three: no milk in China
… My mom would worry about my falling, and try to feed me milk. I hated milk with a passion (or however much passion on can put into regurgitating milk). I needed the calcium though, I needed to eat. So, my mom kidnapped me to China to find foods I liked (when I turned three). By that age, I knew I liked to chew on my Blankie. It tasted much better than milk, and it kept the scary monsters away. My mom called it the “stinky rag.”

I remember sitting at the front of the table on the first day, surrounded by all my relatives. Food covered the entire table and everyone watched me as I stared blankly at all the foreign foods. I ate some rice, some chicken and said, “I wanted to go home.” Nobody heard me.

That night, I woke up in a foreign bed, in a foreign house, in a foreign land. I grabbed my trusted Blankie and ran to the door. I started banging on it when it wouldn’t open, and I cried. My aunt’s golden retriever (his name was Bo) came to comfort me, and I cried until Grandma (and then the entire family) woke up. She said, “It’s ok to miss home, but you know what?”

“What?”

“This is your home, too...and if you didn’t come, you’d lose a part of your home.” I spent six months at that part of my home, and I learned many things (like mosquitoes like kids who drink apple juice, orange juice tasted good, cousins practiced evil and skates made me fall). When I came back…

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