My real first memory

Well, Mom was quick to correct my fuzzy memory on my recent entry, "My first memory," as I requested:

You're right about the Alligator Club on Hilton Head Island, SC but wrong about your age! You were at least 4 years old. Dave was on our vacation with us but too young to attend the Alligator Club. The reason you were in this group is because I had morning sickness being pregnant with Steve! So Dad thought it would be more fun for you than sitting around with a sick Mom. . . . I wonder what other memories you have. Do you remember visiting Dave in ICU when he was born with all those "beepers" on him as you called the monitor leads? LOL!

Well, now that you mention it, Mom, I do remember that--and I suppose that counts as my first memory (though it's not nearly as entertaining). I can say for sure that I know how old I was--I had just turned 3 years old (Dave was born 8 days after my third birthday). I remember being wheeled down the hall in a wheelchair--not because I needed it or anything, but probably because I thought it would be fun--which was being pushed by my grandmother. I don't remember which grandmother, though. It seems more logical that it was my mom's mom, since she only lived one state away, but for some reason, my mind wants to believe that it was my dad's mom (who lives in Iran).

I remember peeking through a glass window into a huge room (which, in reality, probably wasn't all that big, but lots of things look big to a 3-year-old). David was lying on a table, surrounded by doctors and nurses, with all sorts of monitors strapped and taped to him. For whatever reason, I decided those were called "beepers" (maybe because I heard the steady beeping sound that those machines make?) and I asked my grandmother why he had all those beepers on him. Again, it would make more sense to say this grandmother was my mom's mom, since my dad's mom spoke very little English back then and would have been unable to answer me, but my mind keeps arguing with me. (Mom--maybe you can help me out again.)

I'm guessing this memory is the very first time I saw my brother David. Like Mom said, he was in the ICU--he was born with the cord wrapped around his neck 3 times, and was completely blue and silent. My mom told me once that she remembers asking my dad (who is a doctor) frantically if he was all right, and Dad wouldn't answer her. Dave ended up being fine, though we all love to take advantage of the story and tease him about having "brain damage."

I am trying now to remember my other siblings being born, but am having a hard time with Steven and Mary (my next 2 siblings). I was 13 when Peter was born, so I remember that vividly (but we'll get to that later). I remember being woken up in the middle of the night (right before either Steve or Mary was born) and being taken to a friend's house, where my parents had made arrangements for me and Dave (and possibly Steve, if this was Mary's birth). I remember being excited about getting to meet my new little brother/sister. But that's all I can remember--I don't remember visiting them in the hospital at all. Other details of Steve's and Mary's births are in my memory only because I've heard my parents tell the stories over and over (especially the story about Steve being born in the backseat of their car in the hospital parking lot--that's a classic). I suppose I remember Dave's birth a little more because he was my first younger sibling.

I remember that my mom had to be induced when she had Peter. With her history of having huge babies (no baby smaller than 9 pounds for her), her history of going past her due date (both Dave and I were about a month late. Yes, a month.), and her age, the doctor only let her go a couple days past her due date before inducing her. She and my dad left early in the morning, and I was in charge of my siblings for the day. I remember calling their hospital room multiple times throughout the day--and bless my dad's patient heart, he never once got angry with me, though he did gently tell me that they would call us first as soon as the baby was born and it was not necessary for me to keep on calling. Pete was born at 9:39 that night, and I do remember visiting him in the hospital. Mom had made sweatshirts for all of us that said, "I'm the big brother/sister" and we proudly wore those when we visited.

I had my fun as the big sister. I vividly remember one Christmas Eve, as Mom was getting us all ready for bed, I rushed to the window, excitedly exclaiming that I could see Santa's sleigh. Of course, that brought my siblings running, eager for a glimpse of Santa Claus, while I kept pointing at the sky, saying things like, "Right there--can't you see him? I can't believe you can't see him." I'm sure my mom was a little annoyed with my distraction--getting 4 young kids to bed on Christmas Eve is no easy task as it is, even without needless interruptions.

I also remember another time we were on a road trip, and my frazzled parents were desperately trying to get a few minutes of peace and quiet from the backseat of rowdy kids. My mom cheerily asked, "Who wants to play The Quiet Game?" After getting agreement from all of us, she told us to begin. I think I waited a total of 5 seconds before yelling, "I lose!" Which of course, started a chain reaction of 3 other kids yelling, "I lose!" and earned me a Most Dirty Look from my mom.

It's stories like those that make me very afraid of the kind of child Ari will become. I can't tell you how many times my mom uttered that famous parent line: "I hope you have kids someday that are just like you!" If she gets her wish, I am in T-r-o-u-b-l-e (with a capital T that rhymes with P, that stands for "pool").

My first memory

I got to thinking today about my earliest memory, and here's what I came up with. Forgive me if I can't remember too many details. Or, rather, I'll remember details, but they will be so odd and random and unimportant that you will be scratching your head (right along with me), wondering why my brain chose to remember those particular things. (Mom, feel free to correct my shoddy memory.)

I was young--about 3 or 4 years old, probably. Well, I guess it would have had to be younger than 3, because I don't remember my brother David (who was born 9 days after my 3rd birthday) being around. We were vacationing in Hilton Head Island, off the coast of South Carolina. My dad used to travel a lot for business when I was a kid, and he took the family whenever he could.

For whatever reason, I participated in a type of daycare program while we were there (not sure what my mom was doing). I don't remember the name, but it was something like The Alligator Club. It was right on the beach. We did all that typical daycare stuff--played games (I remember that was where I learned to play "Red Light, Green Light"), ate snacks, and colored. I remember coloring a picture of an alligator on a piece of peach-colored construction paper. (See? Odd, random, and unimportant.)

When the weather was nice, we played outside. One day, I was sittting on the shore, working on a masterpiece of a sandcastle. It was going to be the most beautiful sandcastle in the world, I was sure of it. Until disaster struck.

Think about it--what is the worst disaster that can befall a sandcastle? Right--a huge wave rolling in and obliterating it. Which is precisely what happened.

And where was I when all this happened? Sitting right in front of the sandcastle, with my back to the ocean, completely unsuspecting. I can still remember the feeling of utter surprise and terror as that wave covered me from head to toe. I opened my eyes, and I can still remember how it looked--the way the world shimmered and swayed in my vision--and the way it felt--holy crap, my eyes stung from that saltwater.

I'm not entirely sure what happened next, but I'm sure it involved me running to the teacher, wailing and sobbing as though my very world (along with my sandcastle) had gone tumbling down around me. (I was a very melodramatic kid.)

OK, so it seems funnier in my head, but the moral of the story is this, kids: Never turn your back to the ocean. And never open your eyes in saltwater.

All right, since that was kind of lame, how about another one? I was a bit older--elementary school, probably about 2nd or 3rd grade. There was a group of us kids playing in the playground after school, waiting for our parents to come pick us up. A friend (let's call her Laura) and I were building a volcano out of the sand, and nearby, 2 boys (one named Thomas, I'm sure of that) were doing the same. Being the giggly little 2nd-grade girls we were, Laura and I came up with a brilliant plan--we would make our volcano erupt, which translated as throwing sand at the boys. We whispered to each other and suppressed our snickers as we prepared to carry out our dastardly plan.

As most plans like that go, we decided to launch into action after a brief (but hushed) countdown. But before we could reach "1," those devious, conniving little boys stole our brilliant plan and attacked first. Their timing was meticulous--just as we turned our heads toward them, with mouths open to holler our battle cry, a tidal wave of sand hit us both square in the face. (Are you seeing how these stories are related?)

You can guess what happened next, right? It did involve much wailing and sobbing, along with finger-pointing and accusations. I distinctly remember that when my mom got there, I boldly lied to her, sobbing about how those mean, nasty boys had attacked us without any provocation at all, and no, of course the thought of throwing sand at them had never crossed our minds, Mom, never--we were innocent victims of a brutal attack.

I also remember my mom's remedy to cleanse my searing eyeballs--opening my eyes in a huge bowl of salt water, freshly prepared by her. (See, that's what made me think of this story after I told the first one.) I remember it, once again, being excruciating, but that was probably because I already had 12 million grains of sand lodged in my eyeballs.

So, there you go--2 stories for the price of one. Buy one, get one free. Not only my first memory, but my first lie. You're just learning all sorts of fabulous things about me, aren't you?