When I was seven, I thought that I knew everything.

If you were to ask anyone who knows me, I'm probably much the same.

But the difference from now and then is, then I wasn't afraid to practice what I knew.

One Sunday morning, after a rambunctious sleepover with my best friend Karen. We woke to my mom making us breakfast. The smell of pancakes and bacon summoned us to the round table in our little apartment. Patiently waiting my mom rounded the corner, “I’m running to the store, don’t open the door for anyone.” At 7, the excitement that grappled my body at the opportunity overcame me. On the surface I was calm, internally I was bouncing around at all the possibilities of being home alone. The moment the door locked I was on a mission to find anything left askew to get into. But my mom, the early childhood educator was meticulous. Everything locked, I decided to venture into the kitchen, everything in its rightful place but a bowl with a frothy yellow mixture just sitting by the kitchen sink. Little black flakes floating around, my eyes lit up. “What is this?” my brain searched for answers to no end. “Karen! Come look.” Karen a few years older than me at 10 floated around the corner always interested in what I had to say. Questions in here eyes. “Watch.” Taking the palmolive detergent squirting the heaviest amount I could without it being noticeable. Karen watched. Worry in her eyes, but no words exiting. “Its just cleaning stuff.” I stated with the confidence of someone who does this for a living. The moment I'd swirled everything together, the lock began to turn, and as swiftly as we'd found it we departed. Into my room we escaped into the many worlds we’d created. And for the next 30 minutes life was bliss. “Ivory Lee, it's time to eat.” The melody of my moms voice hard but loving rounded the corner. Me and Karen ran into the living area plates steaming in our usual places. Always a meat before carbs kind of girl Karen started with the bacon. Her face lit with glee at the perfect crunch, the grease that engulfed her mouth and the seemingly endless piece of meat before her. On the other hand I dived into the eggs, fluffy, slightly burnt and when I finally allowed my brain to process what had happened… Soap. All I tasted was Soap. The panic took over me, my eyes wide I wanted to yell “THROW IT AWAY!” but the instant shame I felt overtook my body. I sat silent, watching Karen as she scooped a forkful of eggs into her mouth, chewed, sighed, and swallowed. Hmm? My brain tried it's best to process. Looking into the kitchen where my mom stood fixing herself a plate, she gave me a look as if to say “are you okay?” Not wanting to give myself away I turned back to my plate, finishing the soapy eggs, then the bacon, and finally the pancakes. Walking Karen home later that afternoon as we lived in the same complex I swore I saw a bubble escape my throat but I quietly left it to fate and never told a soul about that day. Except you my dearest reader, you now know one of my many shames.