It's time to practice what I preach.
What is my first memory? I'm not sure, but I think it was when I stepped in dog poop. I must have been around two years old. I was walking in the front yard of my parents' beautiful home in Connecticut. The house was a traditional two-story colonial with a pool in the backyard, and a creek with a man-made pond and island to separate us from the neighbor. Not that we needed separation. Everyone had about two-plus acres of woodlands surrounding their grassy yards.
My parents had chosen to keep the wooded area in our front yard, beyond the grass that surrounded the house. The woods were amazing. We could play there for hours, pretending to be pioneers or rock stars, singers and dancers, astronauts. (We were a three-daughter family, but there was no gender gap when it came to make-believe. We were men and women in our stories, and we loved it.)
The dog poop incident happened long before the make-believe play. I was still attached to my mother, completely dependent, having only recently learned how to walk. (Well, obviously, I guess as I did not seem to have very good aim or awareness of how to avoid the disgusting obstacles in my path.)
So. There we were: I holding my mother's hand as we watched some men cutting down a decrepit tree in the front yard. I saw it after I stepped in it. The mound of dog poop was huge, maybe even the size of a plump watermelon, and it engulfed my blue sneaker. Oh. Wait. My sneaker was tiny. The dog mound was probably the normal size. And that is how I think this may be my earliest memory.
Why do I remember it? Because of my mother's reaction.
"Ew!" she squeaked.
"Ew!" I giggled. (At least, I think I did. It was always funny when my mother said "Ew!" or "Yuck!" We had learned as children to say "P.U." instead of poop or bowel movements or turds. Why? Because my mother had said "Pee-yew!" when changing our stinky diapers.)
She carried me into the house and upstairs to the bathroom with the two sinks. I sat at the edge of one sink as my mother turned on the water, trying to remove some of the squishy, stinky poop from my shoe and sock. All the while she and I echoed each other, chiming "Ew" and "Yuck." And, finally, my mother removed the shoe, the sock (and perhaps more), dropping it all in the washing machine behind her.
Why is this important? It's not, really. Except that it is. I had a cool mother. She was nice, she was funny. She laughed at our mishaps, but took care of us. This is a good memory. It reminds me that I had lots of fun growing up in that house, with that yard. I got bigger and grew older there. I swam in the chorinated pool, hunted bad guys in the woods, sailed across the twelve-foot pond to the faraway island where I found pirates (or became one). I also got a few scars, made a few more messes (okay, a lot more messes), and learned to become terrified of abandonment.
What? Abandonment? Yes, indeed! My mind has wandered to some other stories from that time when I was a toddler, up through nursery school, kindergarten, first grade. But those are stories for another time, another chapter. And this is a part of writing my life.
