They told me my body would be undergoing some chemical and hormonal changes as my systems attempt to rebalance themselves after Amber’s birth.
I said, “I’ll be fine. I’ve been through it before. Twice, in fact. I’m what you might call an old hand at this baby-having business thingamabob.”
They said, “Why are we even bothering attempting to hand you medical advice you might need? You obviously know what you’re doing. Silly us; we’ll just go along now and hand out free enemas to our next ten patients. Carry on then.”
I said, “Pip pip and tallyho.”
They said, “Eleven on this floor alone.”
I said, “Huh?”
They said, “It’s something of a subtle joke. Just let it sink in; you’ll get it eventually.”
… I’m sorry, where was I?
Right. Digging into my whine and cheese platter. Join me, won’t you?
When I was a kid, I didn’t really think about having children of my own. I didn’t play with dollies. I didn’t dress them up or have tea parties with them or parade them around in toy prams while pretending to be their mother. My own mother was a working mom, and one who’d had me at a fairly young age too, so she wasn’t my primary caregiver. My grandparents were. And, don’t get me wrong, I think they did a fine job of teaching me values from when I was born to the age of 6 when Mom got married and we moved out of Nan and Pop’s house. I just didn’t have the sort of early childhood education that was conducive to stereotypically girly activities like dolls, pretend families and tea parties.
I don’t know if I was a particularly difficult child before the age of 6. Like most people, my memory from that time period is incredibly fuzzy, and I can only with the vaguest sense recall nothing but a handful of incidents my family now likes to remind me of – such as the time I swiped a shot glass of whiskey from my grandfather when I was 3, or the time I peed on his neck while he had me up long past my bedtime to watch the Canada Day fireworks when I was 2ish. I know I probably wasn’t an easy child to get along with, especially given the distance between my mother and I, with her having not been my primary caregiver for all those important formative years. But I can’t really say for sure, since Mom establishes that I am now, and always have been, the spawn of Satan.
Usually she’s joking, but sometimes she’s not, and it’s kinda hard to tell the difference from time to time.