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Wednesday, June 25, 2008

Born to be

Img011This is tough.  Still, this is something that I have wanted to do for some time now - journal my life.  I think it is important as we get older, to journal our life in stages so that our children can visit our journey when and if they desire to discover our passage, our discoveries, our frustrations, our difficult lessons throughout this life.  That said, I would like to say that this will not be an easy journal for me to write, but I feel that it is necessary for my children and hopefully for some personal healing in the process. 

 I was born in 1959 to a stay-at-home-mom and a father who had his own real estate business.  We lived in Maryland in a small home in Silver Spring, Maryland.  My earliest memories are of being in a crib with a bottle of milk and the nipple clamped between my gums.  I remember gumming the rubber nipple and slinging the bottle around my face and then whipping it across the room.  Yeap, I actually remember this.  So, I suppose my memories go back farther than most.  My mother would come into the room and she would ask "how did your bottle get over here?"  Yes, I even remember her saying that.  Probably because she said it every time she came into my room.  It became redundant after awhile.  She stopped giving me the bottle when my baby teeth started coming in because I could no Img010_2 longer grip the nipple in my gums and sling the bottle around my face without putting a big hole in the nipple.  This was unfortunate for my mother because now if there was any milk left in the bottle it got all over me, the crib, and the walls.  Now the question wasn't "how did your bottle get over here?" it was "what on earth happened in here?"  That was the end of my bottle days.  Darn.  I was really enjoying ripping those nipples to bits. 

Next adventure of course was the trampoline.  No, not an actual trampoline - my crib.  I did a number on my crib and broke the side rails.  I wanted to bounce all the way to the ceiling and out of my limited space.  Dad was good at repairing it until I broke it a dozen times.  I recall the feeling like I was flying every time my feet left the mattress.  It was glorious!

Img015 My father used to call me Soapsuds when I was growing up. That was because I loved bubble baths and would scream if my mother tried to take me out of my bath.  I'd splash and play and make funny noises and blow bubbles all over the bathroom.  If I was going to have a bath, it was going to be a darn good one.  Inevitably I would have to be dried off and then I would cry because my fingers were all pruney and my toes were all shriveled up.  That used to scare me and I think that is probably why I cried.  Sometimes I would take my fingers and open and close them time and time again trying to get them to go back to normal.  I couldn't figure it out.  Boy, did I feel clean, though.

To be continued....

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