Had I followed through with all the plans I’ve had throughout my lifetime, I’d probably be more worn out than I am and no farther ahead. That comment may sound a bit pessimistic but in reality, it’s just the truth. As I was cleaning my desk the other day I ran across a manila folder. I could tell by it’s weight that it didn’t hold much and opening it revealed the very first page of the book I decided to write a few years ago. I’m not sure if you’re ready for this but here is page 1 of my life story.
It was a hot July day back in 1965. A beautiful mother of two became a beautiful mother of three. Another daughter was added to this modest, hard working family. I’m told I had lots of dark hair so the nurses were able to give me that Gerber baby look by rolling my hair into a little curl on the top of my head. Back then, women were kept in the hospital nearly a week after giving birth so the nurses had lots of time to play with babies and style their hair. I remember my mother telling me I was about as perfect as a baby could be. She has said this many times over the years but the initial thought was formed when she was under some pretty heavy medication. What followed in the years to come would prove, I wasn’t in fact, perfect in any way, shape or form.
My earliest memories stem back to the time I spent in the pen. It was a cage like structure and because there were absolutely no gymnastics “genes” in my “closet” I never once tried to escape. Not even once. You hear about kids jumping and climbing out of their cribs all the time. Not me. I set up camp and found things to do. I remember chewing the top of the nipples off my bottles. That was fun. You might say I designed one of the first “sippy” cups. Once the entire top of the nipple was removed, the contents flowed out quite easily but probably not as easy as it did when I figured out how to take the whole top off. Now that, that was interesting. I was a baby. Spilling stuff had no consequences. It was just fun so I did it a lot!
I also remember scribbling on the bedroom wall through the bars. My fingernail was my pencil and it worked great. The only drawback was the fact that it didn’t have an eraser so once the canvas was full, this little budding artist would have to wait for mom and dad to move the crib to a new position. The bedroom was small so that didn’t actually happen. Today, a house containing lead paint would most likely be condemned and destroyed and the inhabitants would probably be sent to some research facility to study the effects of lead on the human brain. I’m 40 something and I’m still around and I can honestly say I haven’t spent a lot of time trying to figure out if that is what caused me to be so odd. Wouldn’t it be interesting if there was actually something good that stemmed from all of these materials that were determined to be unsafe? Okay, so I’m a dreamer too.
I suppose it was shortly after my third birthday, I spotted an interesting piece of property just outside my parent’s bedroom door. That, I decided, would one day become my apartment. It was small but bigger than the place I was currently in. From where I saw it most often, I was pretty sure I could fit a couple of strollers, a doll crib and maybe even a Barbie townhouse in it. The possibilities seemed endless and it would be mine, all mine! I would no longer be bunking in my parent’s room. What I didn’t know then is that my “big bed” that followed the crib wasn’t going to fit in my 48″ x 64″ apartment so I had to rent a bit of space in my sister’s bedroom for my bed and learned that my apartment would be the place I would spend a lot of my day time hours. My sister wasn’t thrilled but we made it work. Apparently I had trust issues with the new bed. The bars from the one I had grown quite accustomed to would always keep me from falling out. This new bed was downright scary. Subconsciously I would freak out while I was sleeping knowing that I could possibly be killed should I thrash about without my security bars to catch me! (The bed was approximately 24″ high. A real dangerous situation, right?) I started to wet the bed and I can’t really remember how often but I did it enough to still remember the feeling I had when I woke up. That is not a fond memory in itself but what amazed me most is how well my mother would handle it. I always returned at night to a nice, clean, dry bed. Not once do I remember her yelling at me nor did she ever make me feel bad in any way and eventually, I stopped. My mom was amazing.
Well, that’s it. Page one. I’m sure page two will show up eventually. Stay tuned.