Sandy Supposes....

Hi Mom and Dad

PROMPT July 1st

Write a letter to your parents from before your birth. Give them advice about how to raise you and give them a heads up about anything they might struggle with when you come into their lives.

         Hi Mom and Dad! It's me, your eldest. Sorry, to ruin the big bang of my birth, but I'm a girl. No need to wait and pace for nine long months. There is no mystery. You can discard all those boy names on your list; I'm not a Junior. Now about the moniker you did saddle me with...

         There's nothing horrible or nonsensical with it, but, come on, did you have to give me the dog's name? Sure, you forgot the golden retriever jumping at your feet when you christened me Sandy. Really? Two of us named Sandy? Were your memories, your powers of recall that lacking that you thought one name would suffice? It's my name and I've grown accustomed to it, but what were the alternatives? Gertrude? Gladys? I love my grandmas, but those names?

         Now, I don't wish to alarm you and you'll probably still be shocked when I arrive which will be on my doctor guesstimated due date by the way, but I will not be the blonde you anticipate. Weird, eh? Please do not embarrass yourself Mom by insisting that you were given the wrong baby and demanding the return of your own blonde child. Your first impressions that I had to be an Italian were erroneous. I will be born with black hair, lots of it. I will not be bald. Just sneak a peek at your own Mother and you will see the resemblance, dark hair and chubby cheeks.

         After a few years have passed, my hair will lighten to a 'dirty blonde.' Here's a heads up. I do not like anyone playing with my hair, no one. I prefer it to hang long and loose. Mom, please, please, please, I'm begging you. Rethink your plan to 'fix' my hair with a home perm. Why torture yourself and me the innocent child? No, I really do not need curls. And Dad, thanks, but your crude attempts to wrangle my hair into pony tails is not necessary. I'm like a sheepdog. I can see fine with hair hanging in my face.

         Oh, I almost forgot. My legs will be a bit 'different', but please try not to worry. Everything sorts itself out and I am not permanently crippled. Club feet are fixable. Oh, and if you want me to walk before I am eighteen months of age, let me attempt to toddle on my own two feet. They will support me. Warn the relatives, too. They do not need to carry me everywhere. I'm not suggesting they stop all the cuddling entirely, I do like it. A little less mollycoddling would be appreciated. Thanks.

         Okay, I feel I must warn you both. I will be a talker. I am a converser. Some may choose to label me as a chatterbox. They'd be accurate. Just so you know, I will always have something to natter about. No, I am able to breathe quite well as I spout chitchat. Contrary to popular opinion, speaking does not leave one breathless. Oh, and I shall pose many questions, too. I need to know things.

         

         It takes me time and tears I must admit, but I will reconcile myself to your insatiable desire to snap family photos. Please bear with me, I can be stubborn. Just between you two and me, no, it did not kill me to smile. What did almost undo me is the bright lights. Yes, I was and am a squinter. Could you consider shooting me and ending my misery, er, I mean consider shooting the photo ops. in less sunny locales? Why can't we place our backs to the bright sun? Could I pose in the shade? Oh, and please purchase a pair of sunglasses for me immediately after my birth. I acted as a miserable brat and I made you miserable because the light really did hurt my eyes. Yes, okay, I never did like to wear hats.

         Don't worry about me and my eyes. The constant squinting didn't harm them. Reading by the illumination of the streetlight across the street from my bedroom window did not strain my eyes in the least. To this day, I am an avid reader and I've never required corrective lenses.

         Do not feel as if you must provide me with expensive toys and gadgets. Give me paper and pencils and I guarantee I will amuse myself. The fridge will always have artwork to display. I'll want lots of paper. I discover writing and I cast my family in my stories.

         Sigh, I feel I must issue another warning. Prepare to spend time in emergency waiting rooms. Apropos name, no? I'm sorry. I'm an accident magnet. 'Things' happen to me. Full disclosure here. When I'm fourteen with a fractured thumb I will willfully disregard my plaster cast and swim with it. It was summer. Yes, you will tell me I'm old enough to know better, but I will do it anyway. May I suggest you 'punish' me with extra camp duties and visit the beach more yourselves?

         In the future during my teen years, you will take away my bike and disassemble it. Don't worry. I will not hold a grudge. I will actually breathe a sigh of relief. That damn thing and I shared far too many mishaps. Although walking will not necessarily prove less drastic, I'd rather get around with both of my feet on the ground.

         To put your worries at ease, we all survive my teenage years relatively unscathed. We reach the point where I drive the car and transport my siblings without incident. Oh, didn't I mention this? You make me the big sister to three others. Yep, there will be four of us.

          F.Y.I., you will be young grandparents. Hey, it happens.

         There may be a few disagreements over the years, but nothing earth-shattering. We will never be alienated. As your experimental child, I am not left psychologically damaged. That's not to say I'm unmarked. I will reciprocate your love and acceptance. I will carry the family sense of humour with me and share it.

         Thanks for creating me, Mom and Dad! Love, Sandy B.