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When I was not quite two and a half years old, my Mom informed me that she needed to go to the library. So she dressed me, put me in my carriage, and off we went.

(Okay. I know. “How can he possibly remember what happened when he was two?!! That’s ridiculous!” Well, I do. Get over it.)

It was April, and still a bit chilly. She had me wrapped like a worm in my woolen blanket.

After two and a half long, avenue-sized blocks, we stopped in front of the library, right next to a candy machine. The type of machine where you put the coin in the slot and turn the handle, then open the little door at the bottom and candy magically flows down the chute and into your hand. If you can get your hand there quickly enough.

“I’m going in,” my Mom told me. “I’ll be about 15 minutes. They don’t want carriages inside, so you wait here,” she instructed.

As if I had a choice. What did she think I was gonna do, use my blanket as a rope and shimmy down the side? And even if I did, where would I go?

My carriage was situated in such a way so the end where my head rested was visible from the inside of the library, with my feet next to the candy machine.

“And another thing,” she continued. As if she hadn’t already said enough. “Don’t you dare try to go to the other side of the carriage to play with that candy machine. Do NOT, do you understand me? You’re too big. If you try it and the carriage falls over, God Help You!!!”

And with that bone chilling threat, into the library she went.

(That’s right. She left me outside, all alone. But it was 1958. Eisenhower was President. Things were different. Don’t go judging my Mom.)

Naturally, as soon as the door shut behind her, I began planning my crawl to the other side of the carriage.

I just had to play with those handles. Can you blame me? It was such fun! I had no idea how long 15 minutes was, but it sounded like enough time for me to do what I had to do.

I was wrapped up kind of tight, so I found it difficult to maneuver around. But after some wriggling, I got my arms free, and after I turned onto my stomach, I pushed myself up, then executed a quick flip.

Sadly for me, my carriage did the same.

Crap, I thought.

(Yes. I remember that that’s exactly what I thought. Get over it.)

When the carriage completed its fall, I was ejected. I rolled onto the sidewalk, lying there on my little back, still loosely wrapped in my stupid blanket.

I thought I was finished: it was all over for me. No way I could pick the carriage up and climb back in. And it would be senseless to try to crawl away…again, where would I go?

Soon I was surrounded by five or six adults, pointing and staring at me.

Hmmm. This might be a fortuitous turn of events, I thought. No way my Mom was gonna go off on me in front of a group of strangers.

Then I figured if I started crying, I just might get out of this. It’s what the crowd expected me to do, anyway; I could tell. (Thinking back, I can’t get over how smart I was. A baby genius! My IQ must have been through the roof! Sadly, my brain did not continue on its extraordinary path.)

There I was, lying on the cold sidewalk, crying, in the middle of a group of people pointing and trying to decide what could be done, when my Mom suddenly appeared.

Gulp.

She looked at the carriage, looked at the people, then looked at me. In that order. I could tell she knew that I was crying just for appearances sake. Knew exactly what I was up to. And she was angry. Not only because I didn’t listen to her, but because she realized that I had her outwitted.

She scooped me up, then struggled to right the carriage. Some man offered his help.

“Mind your own business,” she practically barked.

Yikes.

After putting me in the carriage and covering me, we began our walk home. I stopped crying as soon as my head hit the pillow; just flipped the switch. As an extra layer of protection, I immediately faked having fallen into a deep sleep.

“What the hell were you thinking?” my Mom asked me.

C’mon, Mom, I thought, while squeezing my eyes shut tighter. Get over it…