My mother told me once, that when the doctors brought me to her, she told them (and I quote), "That's not my baby...". Well that got the doctor and nurses all sorts of confused and bewildered, because as it happens, she was the only new mother of Asian descent in the entire maternity ward. I actually wasn't surprised by that revelation. I think she didn't want a daughter to begin with, let alone one that didn't have blonde hair and blue eyes. She is the sort of person who, when she gets an idea about something, it's hard to impress upon her anything otherwise. I am exactly like her in that sense. Go figure right? So Alice, the semi Asianesque looking newborn began life totally unwanted by the mother who gave birth to her. Not as surprising as it should be if you ask me, but then again, who asked me.
The beginning rarely is as glamorous as we believe it should be. Mine is quite the example, wouldn't you agree. Late from the start, and hogging the spotlight to boot, I was a silent baby even after the doctor tried slapping my glutes. Goes to show that perhaps butt first births really are a bad idea, since I had technically taken my first breath while my head was still in the birthing canal. I got to stay in the hospital for an extra week because I was jaundiced too. HA! What a way to start! My parents were troopers though. Stayed by me as much as possible until I was released "into their custody" and taken home.
There, the next bit of fun started, because surprise surprise, I had colic too. The next few months of life were spent dealing with a baby who had an attitude. Maybe it wasn't my fault, but who's to know really? I mean do YOU remember those years? Yea, me neither, so I'm going with the fact that I caused my parents all sorts of issues. I'm actually surprised they even wanted more kids after me. Guess you could say they were hoping for better luck with the next one, who by the way is the complete opposite of me. But that's not the story here, because you'd be smiling instead of shaking your head if it were. Just saying.
They found out that motion was the best friend they'd always hoped for, and stuck me in or on almost anything that moved. Three hour car ride around the neighborhood, check. Race to the baby swing when the winder was slowing down, check. I had those two on pins and needles. Kind of funny, the fact that they put themselves through so much, just to have a "miniature version of themselves" to leave behind when they moved on to "the next step". I think it's ironic, honestly, the thought of ME being a living remnant of an accomplishment of who they were. I hope they're happy, but I won't be surprised if they find this offensive and a waste of time. Not their fault I am not exactly successful, they tried.
I then became a kind of succubus on their personal lives. They really couldn't get a second alone, which also makes you wonder how they could get enough time together to produce more offspring eh? My poor parents, they sure meant well. By the time I was about eight or nine months, and because I was such a fat little baby, I began the process of walking. Forget about crawling, my thighs were so big I could barely bend my knees! I started to thin out a bit after I began walking though, so then came the diaper revolutions. Oh yes, another non-surprising but hugely humorous occurrence, I started taking my diaper off. But it doesn't stop there, oh no, I wasn't using a potty yet. HahA! That's right, I was going to the bathroom where ever I saw fit, which means wherever my butt squatted! (yes, I'm shaking my head right now, as should you be, at my poor parents newest behavioral issue I gave them)
Mother dearest, as I'm now dubbing her, has to be the strongest woman I know. I mean the next piece is outright hilarious. I was a nudest loud-mouth, who flat out would run off on my own. She sewed bells into my little socks, which looked cute, but were actually so she could always hear me. Oh yea, and they also tried the cute little baby leashes too. My dad actually got stopped once when he was walking with me, on my leash, by an old lady in a car who was appalled at the fact that he was "walking" his daughter like a "dog". I find this to be awesome, because he said I was running full speed ahead at an angle, you know head first with feet somewhere behind, tugging on the leash. He told me that HE told HER, "You try and keep up with her!" and that was the end of that. I'm saying, that's funny as hell, but again not surprising when you think about it. I was a hellion of a toddler. After the baby brother was born, I would actually unlatch the leash, oh yes I did, and hook it to his stroller... wait for it... and then run off. Hahahaha... poor poor parents.
So I had this obsession with chocolate too. My mother swears that my first word was actually chocolate, and my second was coca-cola. I mean, what kid completely skips the vital first words of "mama" or "dada"? This kid (thumb was just in chest), that's who! Chocolate, in every form, was the object of my desires. Coca-cola, the nectar of the gods, was something you couldn't leave unattended around me, lest you wanted to end up with an empty can. I mean I'd grab it up the moment you set it down and would turn it up so fast it made heads spin. No surprise there though, I hear that all babies are known to steal your pop if given the chance. I suppose I was more feral when it came to either of those two products. My dad said he came home from work one day and my mother was sitting on the sofa kind of reading a book and had some Whoppers <no I'm not getting any payment for incorporating the official name of a chocolate malted candy in my book. Yes, I still love them to this day> in her lap. She then tossed one across the living room. . . what do you know, I take off like a bat out of hell after it. . . grab it up, pop it in my mouth and chew it up with a rigor that could be the envy of modern day competitive eaters. . . then waited for her to throw another. My dad told her that she wasn't allowed to do that, she asked him why not, and he said I wasn't a dog, and she said it kept me occupied so she could have a few minutes to herself. I'm just saying, but maybe this is why I relate to dogs so well. I mean I've worn leashes and played fetch.
Of course, I have this one memory of a story my dad mentioned when I was still in diapers. We were attending mass; we've been Catholic, Protestant, and now we're just plain Spiritual; and my dad was holding me in his arms. This is when I believe that I decided to become an artist. I pooped in my diaper, which was, as I'm told, pretty rank, and reached into it and pulled a handful out. Don't worry it gets better. I had a handful of fresh baby poop and began to draw on my dad's suit. The best part, I thought it was hilarious and good. He couldn't get out of the pew and run down the aisle fast enough, all the while holding a cackling, yes Cackling, toddler in his arms who was proceeding with her poop-art on him. Needless to say, it's a sure bet that we didn't return the following Sunday. My poor dad and his twisted baby girl.
Unsurprising enough, I was incessant about food too. Mom nor Dad could feed my thunder thighs fast enough... they literally began to puree my baby food into shakes so I could slurp them down as fast as possible. But one fateful day, I ate off my dad's plate, and baby food was a thing of the immediate past. I demanded that my highchair be placed next to my dad's at the table. They removed the tray and scooted me right up to his plate. No, I didn't need one of my own, I had to eat off of his. Daddy's girl much? You betcha, and I wasn't going down without a fight. Hell I even tried to feed him instead of the other way around. So whatever dad having, so was I. Except green beans or peas. I despised them... actually I didn't eat "green" food until I was in Middle School. Punishment sometimes consisted of a bowl of green beans placed in front of me.
The stories of my babyhood into toddler life progress in this fashion for the most part. A little menace on their lives until the ripe age of two. That was when my younger brother was born... and shall we say, I was not about to loose my spotlight to a swaddling babe. But to hear it told, he didn't mind. He is the complete opposite of me. My mother rarely heard a peep out of him, unless it was feeding time, and he was satisfied with a warm bottle every time. I couldn't stand him. As we grew, I made him public enemy number one. He tells me that I tried to drown him in the tub once, I say his memory is muddled by the bubble bath. But thinking back now, I probably did. Evil spawn that I was. My mother even set up the big camcorder to catch recordings of me torturing his poor soul. I suppose it makes perfect sense now, why he decided he'd rather not tell his friends (or anyone else of importance... hint hint...) about his sadistic sister. I don't know that I blame him, I think he was an accident, but also a blessing given to my poor parents to let them know that not all babies are alike. (or Wicked.) That it really wasn't their fault. Maybe...