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.
