After growing up with an alcoholic stepfather, there are some rather absurd things that I can laugh about now. My four year old daughter was stomping through the house the other day in a pair of my high heels. Wincing, I soon broke into a smile, remembering. Living with an alcoholic was terrifying enough when he was drunk, but the next morning he was usually hung over. Most everyone can sympathize with being hungover. Queasy stomach, dry mouth, throbbing headache and just all around feeling terrible, any noise seems to be magnified. My sister and I would get yelled at for walking too loud. Yes, walking too loud. We soon learned to walk quietly on our toes so that the heel of our foot would not touch the floor. Mom tried to ease our tension and confusion by making a game out of it. She told us to pretend we were Indians (Native Americans in this day and age). She explained that Indians could sneak through the forest and no one would hear them. Her explanation made it a game for our younger years, which became a habit for us later. To this day, when I decend the steps quickly in our house (even though they are carpeted) I find myself slowing down and walking on my toes because I am not walking softly enough. These kinds of ridiculous scenes stay with me and I am glad. As an adult, I am able to understand everyone’s role. And as a survivor, I can sit back and smile while my daughter clomps through the house as lound as she wants to be.