It’s funny, how when challenged to write the start of a hypothetical autobiography or life story, how few people mention the pretenses to their birth.
My parents met through mutual friends, these mutual friends being my aunt and uncle. My older cousins had just been born, and I had a loving family ready to be born into. I was lucky, and I am currently so grateful, but I admit that often I take this for granted.
As a baby, I had some strange habits. I was a pudgy little girl, who used to gorge on Goldfish like it was ambrosia. I used to rub my nose – no, not in the typical sense, where one would occasionally paw at it with a plump hand – rather, I would spend hours and hours staring at my surroundings while I tenderly stroked a nostril, in circles and circles. I’d fall asleep like that. Yes I know, these are very peculiar traits.
I used to not be able to keep my diaper on. In the morning, my parents would find me naked in my crib, diaper thrown into a corner. They fashioned me a pair of cute little baby bottoms, but I was relentless. I’d take off the pants, and then the diaper, and they’d still be found in the corner every morning. My grandmother thought she was clever; she installed a drawstring in the pants, never thinking that a 13-month old baby would be intelligent enough to untie it. She was wrong; I learned how to. Finally, they managed to keep my diapers on through fastening the drawstring in the back, and alas, I wasn’t smart enough to get out of it.
I remember bits and pieces of my childhood, but very few complete memories. I remember writing the words “cat” and “dog” on a piece of paper time after time. I remember the first time I jumped into a pool, and how that very same afternoon, got my first cramp in the pool.
In reality, these little spurts of nostalgia shouldn’t seem like much. But to me they are invaluable; they are the only true memories I have of who I used to be. I’ve been having so many moments where all I want to do is return to my childhood, where I didn’t have any true problems and I could cry because I had an excuse. These days, it’s not like that anymore.
But I loved my childhood. This is me (or at least, the beginnings of me).
Inspiration for this post comes from here.