I once lived in a neighborhood that was so new, the streets hadn't even been paved yet. It was a mountain town, and I had to walk maybe half a mile to get to the school bus stop. When you're six though, it feels more like two miles. Or forever.

To get to the bus stop, I had to walk around this enormous field. It was such a circuitous route, that most people took the trail that cut straight through the overgrown weeds. Much faster.

So one day, it had rained while I was at school. I got off the bus, and began taking the trail across the field like I always did. I was careful to pick my way around the numerous puddles, especially since my footwear consisted of socks and sandals.

And then I encountered it.

The expanse of mud that completely spanned the trail and blocked my path.

I stared at it, deciding that it was too perilous to jump across. I peered into the tall weeds on either side, which grew about as tall as I was. Possibly hiding monsters. Or sinkholes. Or swarms of insects ready to suck me dry. And who knew if the mud continued on into the brush? I couldn't even see the ground in there. No, there was no going around it.

So I looked behind me, gauging how much time it would take me to walk back to the main road and go around the entire field. But I'd already traversed most of it. It would be such a waste of time to go back and then aaaaall the way around. I mean, that's why I took the shortcut to begin with!

And then I was back to staring at the mud. Studying it. Looking for one spot dry enough to step on. I only needed one.

There. It was lighter in color, seemingly less damp than the surrounding mud. I would step there, and then I could safely traverse this pit and continue on my merry way home.

Aaaaand go.

Squish.

Crap.

Not dry.

At all.

My foot had sunk maybe three inches, and my heart sank even further. My free foot stepped across the mud to dry land, and then I pulled on the squishy foot.

No movement.

I tugged again, only to discover that the mud--though not quicksand--had completely glued my foot to the ground. I was stuck. Like a fly on flypaper.

My heart raced and I pulled harder. Tug tug tug.

Nothing.

I began to cry.

I was going to die here. I was going to be stuck here forever and wild animals were going to eat me and nobody would know. I was a six-year-old morsel. It wouldn't take long.

"Mommy!" I shouted between sobs. "MOMMY!!!"

No response. No bystanders. Nobody. Hardly anyone lived out here.

I yelled some more. Considering I'm an introvert who doesn't like to make much noise, this gives you an idea of how panicked I was.

Just when I thought all hope was lost, a tiny voice in the back of my head whispered something. Take off your shoe.

I wiped away the tears and looked down. That was actually doable. So I bent down and unbuckled my sandal. My foot slid out easily, and I was free.

Now I was angry, and I turned on the mud hole. How dare you try to swallow me whole! I'll show you! I grasped my sandal with both hands and yanked hard.

It came loose with a noisy squelch.

And then I walked home. One shoe on, one dirty sock, and one really heavy, mud-clumped sandal in my hand. Pouting. Tear-streaked. Sniffling the entire way.

To this day I wonder what ran through my mom's mind when I finally arrived home looking like that.