It was a warm summer's day when.... If you look closely at many stories, that is exactly how they start each and every time. But not this one, oh no. Everyone, if they choose to do so, has a different and sometimes more or less interesting story to tell. Whether other people will find it interesting or not is dependent upon whether the story is written, told, or shown well. If not, well then you will lead a life unbeknownst to the world. If your story stands out from the crowd, with a ribbon around it and a glorious line of events inside, well then I believe yours will be remembered. And every story, big or small, needs a background.
Well that was a little piece of wisdom I've been thinking about recently. Especially around the holidays (Christmas was yesterday), it is important to be thankful for what you have. Even if you think you have nothing, you are alive, and that is a whole lot better than many poor souls resting below us in the ground. So, Merry Christmas and happy holidays; may you live a long, happy, eventful and beautiful life, because in the end, it's not about how much money you earned, it is about how much you were able to impact the world and the people around you.
Speaking of the holidays, I remember when I got my very own doll, Anabel. It was on December 6th when I was about 5 or 6 years old. Why December 6th? Well that is the holiday know as Sinterklaas, or St. Nicolas. It is celebrated in various European countries, and it is actually where the idea of Santa Claus came from. When you are a child you get excited about little things. When I was a child I would get very excited whenever there was a holiday. In fact, I still do. But now I dread when my birthday comes, because even though I am not even an adult yet, I know I will soon be one, and every passing year will pass faster and faster and faster. I want to be able to fully experience the ability to be carefree and young. For it doesn't last forever. However much we may want it to, it comes and goes quicker than you would have thought, snatching away your joys and bringing stress and bills into your life. But not yet, and certainly not when I was 5 or 6. Because at that time, I got a new friend. I got a friend that would comfort me when I was sad, would listen to me when I complained, would let me put on whatever clothes I should so choose, and would even lay, uncomplaining, in the yard if I had forgotten her. Much of my childhood I spent with this friend, who I still have to this day.
So where does this societal fear of dolls come from? It can't just be from horror movies, can it? In my opinion, people are just afraid of missing their childhood. All people want to do is grow up. But what does that even mean, grow up? Dolls define a girl's childhood, at least they did when I was growing up. Even more so before I was born. Back then there were no phones, no computers, no electronics that you could pull out of the blue to play with. Back then kids were content with playing jump-rope, hop-scotch, even drawing on the side walk with chalk. I was content with all of those things. I was content with picking apples and riding around in a go-cart being chased by elder siblings. It honestly saddens me to see how quickly the world changes. People take less value in happiness and more in meaningless pieces of paper that allow them to feel important. In a hundred or more years from now, historians will look upon our time and analyze our way of life. Maybe they'll be worse than us, but maybe they'll have learned from our mistakes. For the future of mankind and the world, I hope the latter will take place. I know I'll keep my Anabel forever, if not physically than in my heart. Some things just should not be forgotten.
Wednesday, December 26, 2012
Monday, December 3, 2012
Chapter 2: Mischief Begins
A year after being born, my baby self was able to stand. And not only that, but I was able to stumble a bit before the cautious and waiting arms swooped me off the ground. Sometimes I like to believe that babies learn to crawl and walk only to try and escape from their entrapment. But, even if it were like this, it wouldn't exactly work out, what with the streets and neighbors and everything else. Someone would probably catch you before you could even reached the door. And so it is, as you develop into an actual little human being, that you learn to accept the hand of fate that you have been dealt. At least I had the privilege of having two caring parents, not one parent or none. Nor a parent who was reckless or even a drunk. My parents cared, and still do, about the well being of all of their children.
Nevertheless, as a baby I often sought the endless excitement of the outside world (at least the world outside my crib) which often resulted in fuss and worry. Needless to say my parents have some weird baby stories to share whenever the occasion demands it. I'll retell you one such story now, to the best of my ability.
It was a warm late-summer-early-fall kind of day, clouds in the sky and leaves on the ground. Seeking adventure, and finding the perfect opportunity for escape when my mom had left me under the care of my oldest brother, who was immersed within his video games, I scrambled off into the hallway. No one there, yet. I ventured further past the kitchen, where my mom was cleaning dishes and fortunately did not hear me scuffling away. As I approached the back door, which was left open most of the day due to the amount of use it experiences, I found it to be, as expected, wide open. Perfect. I found my way outside and decided to turn the way which led to the street. This would be the largest adventure yet! I could feel the adrenaline building up (well I doubt that actually happened. I'm not even sure whether toddlers can have coherent thoughts) and made my way along the driveway. What may only seem like a mere couple of seconds of walking to you or me now, was like running a mile for this little toddler. But before I even made it halfway across, I found my little tricycle! I mounted the vehicle and was now able to clear the way much more efficiently. At this point I'm sure my older brother had made it through another level within his video game. Anyways, I made it to the street in one piece, and paused to regain some composure. After all, biking a whole driveway on flat ground is quite an obstacle for someone who can barely walk that same distance.
I wouldn't stop there, however. An adventure is not exciting without some craziness involved. And so I biked into the street and started peddling. What an odd sight that must have been. Oh, and I must mention, before continuing, that I lived in Europe, Belgium no less, where everything is flat and green. And yes, that's where Belgian waffles and fries come from. If you haven't been there before, I highly recommend it; it is a very beautiful country. All of my relatives lived and still do live there, including my aunt, who lived on the same street as my family. So back to the oh-so-thralling experience of my babyhood (I daresay it's more exciting than any of yours... ha, just kidding), as I biked further than I had ever gone. When you are barely a toddler you are not worried about cars or any danger. You don't think, that's what parents are for. You just do. It being later in the day, on a weekend, in a small street in a small town, not much traffic passed through, thank goodness. Who knows, if it had, I might never have made it past babyhood, and I would never have been able to recount this super exciting story to you (well... whoever you are anyways). But there is still the obstacle of the neighbors, who have eagle-sharp eyes when it comes to watching for little children. I guess my aunt's eyes were ready for action as I cruised down the street, my little legs pumping faster than ever. As you might have guessed, she immediately ran out, and with her arms like wings she swooped me up (tricycle and all) and fussed about me, and oh why did I go out into the street? Did it even cross her mind that I might have wanted to escape reality? No, of course not.
That was the end of it then, as she brought me back home, safely in one piece. My mother was more than happy to see me and more than angry at my brother for letting me escape him. Let's just say he didn't play video games for several weeks after that. But I was left with the worst of it: no more little adventures and a story that would haunt me forever. But I guess I was able to recount it to you, and maybe you'll gain something from it.... just maybe.
It was a warm late-summer-early-fall kind of day, clouds in the sky and leaves on the ground. Seeking adventure, and finding the perfect opportunity for escape when my mom had left me under the care of my oldest brother, who was immersed within his video games, I scrambled off into the hallway. No one there, yet. I ventured further past the kitchen, where my mom was cleaning dishes and fortunately did not hear me scuffling away. As I approached the back door, which was left open most of the day due to the amount of use it experiences, I found it to be, as expected, wide open. Perfect. I found my way outside and decided to turn the way which led to the street. This would be the largest adventure yet! I could feel the adrenaline building up (well I doubt that actually happened. I'm not even sure whether toddlers can have coherent thoughts) and made my way along the driveway. What may only seem like a mere couple of seconds of walking to you or me now, was like running a mile for this little toddler. But before I even made it halfway across, I found my little tricycle! I mounted the vehicle and was now able to clear the way much more efficiently. At this point I'm sure my older brother had made it through another level within his video game. Anyways, I made it to the street in one piece, and paused to regain some composure. After all, biking a whole driveway on flat ground is quite an obstacle for someone who can barely walk that same distance.
I wouldn't stop there, however. An adventure is not exciting without some craziness involved. And so I biked into the street and started peddling. What an odd sight that must have been. Oh, and I must mention, before continuing, that I lived in Europe, Belgium no less, where everything is flat and green. And yes, that's where Belgian waffles and fries come from. If you haven't been there before, I highly recommend it; it is a very beautiful country. All of my relatives lived and still do live there, including my aunt, who lived on the same street as my family. So back to the oh-so-thralling experience of my babyhood (I daresay it's more exciting than any of yours... ha, just kidding), as I biked further than I had ever gone. When you are barely a toddler you are not worried about cars or any danger. You don't think, that's what parents are for. You just do. It being later in the day, on a weekend, in a small street in a small town, not much traffic passed through, thank goodness. Who knows, if it had, I might never have made it past babyhood, and I would never have been able to recount this super exciting story to you (well... whoever you are anyways). But there is still the obstacle of the neighbors, who have eagle-sharp eyes when it comes to watching for little children. I guess my aunt's eyes were ready for action as I cruised down the street, my little legs pumping faster than ever. As you might have guessed, she immediately ran out, and with her arms like wings she swooped me up (tricycle and all) and fussed about me, and oh why did I go out into the street? Did it even cross her mind that I might have wanted to escape reality? No, of course not.
That was the end of it then, as she brought me back home, safely in one piece. My mother was more than happy to see me and more than angry at my brother for letting me escape him. Let's just say he didn't play video games for several weeks after that. But I was left with the worst of it: no more little adventures and a story that would haunt me forever. But I guess I was able to recount it to you, and maybe you'll gain something from it.... just maybe.
Thursday, November 22, 2012
Chapter 1: The World Begins
I've never done this before. I suppose you could say I'm new to this kind of thing. But let me tell you, every journey must begin with one step, no matter how tiny or no matter how large. Some people just have longer legs than others. And this, my friends, this is my first little step into the world.
Let me start over and backtrack a bit, all the way to when I was born. It was 1996, a warm summer's day on the 25th of June. Everyone was in the hospital, gathered around a bed in which my mother lay, with me in her arms. All the ooing and "oh isn't she darling!" was repeated over and over. Frankly, babies are not the least bit "darling." They're strange, miniscule little creatures who do nothing but bawl and kick and scream until someone finally gives them what they want, which ranges from food to drink to a diaper change. The world is a nice little place when everything you know is nothing at all.
Several days later I would be brought home. Home- what a peculiar word. It's just so strange to think that where you grow up changes the person you become. And, with that statement, you could say that your home defines you. And sometimes you might even define your home. So there I was, the newest addition to our household, the 4th child (but not the last), and the beginning to a whole new range of adventures. Yet, being a newborn, unable to talk, crawl, walk but able to bawl, nothing much of interest happened. That is, until I was kidnapped by the fiercest witch in all the world, whose sole interest was capturing babies to feed to her six headed dragon who first roasted the tiny little carcass and then swallowed it whole. Six babies were needed per feeding, one for each head, of course. Seeing as I'm still alive, telling you this story, however, should signify that I have never even been within reach of such a monster, one that can trample a dozen soldiers without effort. I just hoped to spice up my baby story.
Strange kidnappings aside, my babyhood was quite normal. I was held captive in the arms of one person or other for most of the day, until night when I'd be locked up in a tiny little cage, crooned by anxious, yet experienced, parents, until I'd fall into a slumber. In the middle of the night, I'd wake up and start bawling, confused by the silence and darkness pervading the room. But, as expected, those two things would soon end when my parents were awakened. One of the two would be left with the task of comforting the newest addition to the house until the quiet once again ensued. Me being who I am, that would take a while. This went on for many days, as gradually my tiny little brain began to understand the need to stay quiet at night, and as it finally comprehended its first couple of words. Now, some parents are all over a child when they speak (or should I say mumble unintelligibly) their first word. I have neither a memory of the event nor someone who told me what the "word" was. Not that I really care, so long as I was able to speak as soon as possible. I love words, and I like to tell myself that my tiny little self felt the same way.
Let me start over and backtrack a bit, all the way to when I was born. It was 1996, a warm summer's day on the 25th of June. Everyone was in the hospital, gathered around a bed in which my mother lay, with me in her arms. All the ooing and "oh isn't she darling!" was repeated over and over. Frankly, babies are not the least bit "darling." They're strange, miniscule little creatures who do nothing but bawl and kick and scream until someone finally gives them what they want, which ranges from food to drink to a diaper change. The world is a nice little place when everything you know is nothing at all.
Several days later I would be brought home. Home- what a peculiar word. It's just so strange to think that where you grow up changes the person you become. And, with that statement, you could say that your home defines you. And sometimes you might even define your home. So there I was, the newest addition to our household, the 4th child (but not the last), and the beginning to a whole new range of adventures. Yet, being a newborn, unable to talk, crawl, walk but able to bawl, nothing much of interest happened. That is, until I was kidnapped by the fiercest witch in all the world, whose sole interest was capturing babies to feed to her six headed dragon who first roasted the tiny little carcass and then swallowed it whole. Six babies were needed per feeding, one for each head, of course. Seeing as I'm still alive, telling you this story, however, should signify that I have never even been within reach of such a monster, one that can trample a dozen soldiers without effort. I just hoped to spice up my baby story.
Strange kidnappings aside, my babyhood was quite normal. I was held captive in the arms of one person or other for most of the day, until night when I'd be locked up in a tiny little cage, crooned by anxious, yet experienced, parents, until I'd fall into a slumber. In the middle of the night, I'd wake up and start bawling, confused by the silence and darkness pervading the room. But, as expected, those two things would soon end when my parents were awakened. One of the two would be left with the task of comforting the newest addition to the house until the quiet once again ensued. Me being who I am, that would take a while. This went on for many days, as gradually my tiny little brain began to understand the need to stay quiet at night, and as it finally comprehended its first couple of words. Now, some parents are all over a child when they speak (or should I say mumble unintelligibly) their first word. I have neither a memory of the event nor someone who told me what the "word" was. Not that I really care, so long as I was able to speak as soon as possible. I love words, and I like to tell myself that my tiny little self felt the same way.
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