For me, I think it was when I was playing in the yard, and saw one of my mom’s pots of dirt for her garden, and I thought “yeah this would be good to dump on my lap”
It was full of fire ants. Big, angry, north carolinian fire ants.
I was covered in red welts and all I remember is screaming at the top of my lungs while my mom sprayed me down with a hose
I was 11 or so, on holiday, went horseback riding wearing shorts and thin socks. They set up my stirrups too low and as I held on to the saddle for dear life, one stirrup kept bouncing on my ankle for the entire afternoon.
My thighs chafed pretty bad, and I got an open wound on my ankle about the size of those souvenir pressed oval coins. I don’t know what my dad was thinking, but he treated my wound with some cream and then wrapped my whole calf in plastic wrap every day for about a week.
The wound turned into an ulcer, I couldn’t walk without limping. I had all these little pockets of pus on the edges which my dad had me squeeze to try and make them smaller. It did nothing except be painful.
I eventually went home to my mom - a nurse - who took one look at my leg and rushed me to a doctor.
The doctor then proceeded to vigorously clean my wound before dressing it. It felt like hot barbed wire, that really sucked.
I still have the oval scar on my ankle.
Jesus, I’d be pretty mad at my dad for nearly causing my leg to be amputated.