First Time Around Chapter 1

Chapter One
Say Hi
My very first memory that I can put into words. I am laying in a bassinette, feeling cozy and comfortable. I remember kicking my legs, just because it felt so good to do so. I see my mom lean over with a smile on her face and say “Hi, Baby.” Her presence pleases me to a degree I haven’t felt as an adult. She is beautiful and comforting to me. I feel myself working really, really hard to do what she did. I‘m trying so hard very hard to copy her. Finally I manage a whispery “Hi.” This is incredibly hard work, but I see her face light up and her smile widen. I hear her talking in an excited voice to someone else, the words don’t mean anything to me, but I can tell she’s pleased. Pretty soon my dad leans over the crib with a puzzled look on his face. Again, my mom says “Hi, Baby”. I know my cue, now. I work hard. Trying so hard to get the air to move through me the way I did it before that pleased her so. It’s easier this time. Another whispery, “Hi.” My dad’s face explodes in laughter and smiles. They exchange excited words that don’t mean anything to me, but I can tell they are pleased. This makes me happier and I kick more and gurgle more. My dad picks me up. I don’t really want to be picked up, but I’m tolerating it. I would much rather be where I was, cozy and comfortable laying on my back, kicking my legs and working on this breathing, airy sounding thing that excites these wonderful beings that I learn later are my parents.
Memory fades at that point. I’ve talked about this to my parents. Both of them say they remember the incident. I don’t know how much of my memory is real, or if any of it is mixed up with what they’ve told me. But according to my parents, I was about five months old. I loved my bassinette, even though I was way too big for it. They said I was content to lay in it for hours kicking my legs and gurgling, until I would fall asleep, then wake up and start the whole process over again.. My parents have said that even back then, I was very content to entertain myself, actually preferring to be left alone. They say that the only time I ever made a fuss as an infant was either when I was wet or hungry. Otherwise, I just laid there and made noises to myself. When my mother leaned over and said “Hi, Baby.” She said I got this screwed up facial expression, like I was trying to make a skuzzy (her words for taking a shit), then suddenly a breathy whispered, “Hi.” came out of me. She then told my dad, “She just said ‘Hi’ back to me.” My dad of course didn’t believe a word of it and came over to see. My mom did it again, “Hi, Baby.” Again I worked hard, not quite as hard, but another breathy “Hi” came out. My dad was amazed. They both swear to it. They said as time went on, I even managed to incorporate a wave, just throwing my little hand up and breathing, “Hi.” My first trick. Shouldn’t that be in a record book somewhere? Isn’t five months a little too young to be picking up language? And most of all, what happened to that genius? How come I’m so darned mediocre now? I have to work twice as hard to put words into a sentence as I did to get out that first breathy “Hi.” Life is unfair.
The next thing I remember is being in a dank dark room with my mother. Someone’s living room. It smells musty and dusty. There’s this squat dark haired older woman sitting in a chair, and she makes me feel uncomfortable. I am backed up between my mothers legs with my finger in my mouth, and this woman is talking to me. I can tell she doesn’t really like me and is just pretending to be nice. For some reason, besides being uncomfortable, I am also distressed because this woman doesn’t like me. Everyone must like me. I’m good, and special. How can she not like me? She asks me, “How old are you?” I am excited at this prospect. I know how old I am and I can tell her and she’ll see how good and special I am, and then she’ll like me.
“Two” I say, and I hold up two fingers to emphasize. I’m so proud.
Then Mommy’s voice, “No, Honey, remember you just had a birthday. How old are you?”
Oh no, I made a mistake now this woman won’t see how good and special I am, and now she won’t like me. But I make a valiant effort to rearrange my fingers and I whisper, “Three.” But it’s too late. My mother gives me a squeeze and kiss and says, “That’s right. My, but you’re getting to be a big girl, aren’t you?” This helps a little, but I can tell the woman that I was trying to impress isn’t impressed at all. She doesn’t think I’m good and special, and this hurts my feelings. I start to cry. My mother tries to console me. She asks why I’m crying, but I don’t have the words to explain to her why it is, so I just bury my face into her neck and sob.
“She’s so sensitive.” My mother explains. And that begins a saga that has been with me ever since. I’m so sensitive. It’s the reason that everyone MUST like me. I’m a sensitive soul, and in order for me to survive there must be acceptance in my universe. This is a large burden to carry. I do back flips and summersaults so that I will be liked. I never say no. I must feel good and special. In order to accomplish this, I can only let very few people into my universe. I can count my friends on one hand. However, these friends are lifetime friends, people who are extraordinary and wonderful and they all think I’m good and special, no matter what I do. I understand this is the pain of a lot of writers. Then please explain to me, why we put ourselves out on the line like this? Why do we sit in our little self contained shells and work so hard at putting into words, an obscure idea that is not original, but somehow feels like we MUST tell it, or else we’ll explode? We must be good and special, or else, but we set ourselves up for rejection and humiliation. Silly, isn’t it? Prozac was invented just for me.
Some folks misunderstand and feel that I’m cold, and conceited. That isn‘t it at all. I have zero confidence, and I keep my mouth shut, most of the time, when I’m in the company of more than one or two people, so that no one can see how very unremarkable, and sub special I really am. All the encouragement in the world will not have an effect on this. It won’t move. If you can give me one example of good and special, I can give you twenty of stupid and ignorant without breathing hard. Fortunately, most of the time I can keep good humor about this, and somewhere in my soul, I know that this is a little mental flaw and that I’m not the waste of space I so often feel that I am. How fortunate for me, that I can differentiate this, or I’m sure I’d be in a rubber room somewhere. And the jury is still out on that one.