Day 2: Crying in the Dark

This was my husband's idea.  I feel it's important to blame him right off the bat in case this ends up being awful.

It's Sunday night and I've been staring at my laptop helplessly.  This is why I was afraid to commit, moments like this when nothing seems to be presenting itself to be explored.  Usually when I ask him a question the answer is something nonsensical, or at the very least, a non-answer.  Question: What do you want to eat tonight?  Answer: Food.  Question: What do you think we should name our first child?  Answer: Chair.  Question: What should I write about, or rather, as I've learned not to ask this question, I don't know what to write about.  Response: How wonderful I am.  But tonight he must've seen the anxiety on my face because he kept quiet for a minute when I expressed my inability to think of anything interesting to write about.  And then he asked me what my earliest childhood memory was, and when I told him he didn't believe me.  Apparently, the stretch of my memory is freakish, easily recalling the names (first AND last) of children with whom I attended preschool, and the word that knocked me out of the running for a trophy at the third grade spelling bee.  It was 'fact,' by the way.  I promise I'm not dumb, but I was so excited at the ridiculously easy word they handed me, I quickly called out an 's' instead of 'c' and well, fourth place was an embarrassment.  But that's not my earliest.

I'm crying, wailing and standing in my crib, waiting for my mother to rescue me from this torment called bedtime.  My room is dark but for a small night light across the room, and my eyes are fixated on the strip of light beneath my closed bedroom door.  I do not want to go to sleep.  I am not tired.  Then there is a shape in the doorway and she is my mother.  I don't remember the words, but I do recall her soft voice, and the way she pets my hair and lays me back down.  She makes sure I've got my blankie and then, she is gone.  I cry for a while longer, but this time I stay down, staring from behind the bars of my baby cage through bleary, tear filled eyes.

I'm not sure how old I was, but I was still sleeping in my crib, so you do the math.  And I do recall that I still had my pacifier, so it must've been before the washing machine incident, in which the mean old washing machine actually ate my pacifier.  At least this is what I believed growing up.

So that's it, my earliest.  Nothing too revelatory, but I'm a little proud of it, just the same.