Because my mother has been on a roll recently, I have been thinking what early life with her was like.
I have one good memory with her.
I was 18 months old. It is a lovely, gauze-covered vision of standing up in my crib and looking out my window. Outside my bedroom, two kids had built a snowman for me. The kids tried to hide, but also wanted to watch my reaction...so their heads kept popping out.
After years of thinking this was a recurring dream, I finally told my parents the story and learned that the snowman-sculpting "kids" hiding from me were my parents.
The next memory is a bit different.
I was about 4 years old.
It is of me, running down the hall.
Running from my mother.
Running as she chases after me, screaming like the proverbial fishwife -- arms and hands raised in a literal claw-like position, as if she was a furious Tyrannosaurus Rex. I hide behind the living room recliner -- too young to understand that peeking my head up meant discovery.
I don't remember what happened next. But I will assume it was similar to what happened the rest of my pre-adult life when she decided she was mad. A spanking.
No.
Not a spanking.
A furious flurry of uncontrolled hands, arms, fists and screaming sounds directed at whatever body part she happened to hit.
I do remember my crime, though.
She had some decorative mini-seashell bath soaps.
I thought they were pretty.
I put some of them in water and watched beautiful rainbow colors being made.
Mother was NOT happy.
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