It's My Birthday and I'll Write if I Want To, Write if I Want To, Write if I Want To

Somewhere in the vicinity of four in the afternoon, 55 years ago tomorrow (December 19, 1957 if you must know) I was born. I don't remember this. I don't remember feeling compelled to leave my warm dark home and venture out, squeezing through an opening in the cave wall, being pushed out (literally) kicking and screaming.

I don't remember any of it. There are months, years even, that I've lost. I was held, cooed and sung to, rocked, played with, fed, bathed. For years I received royal treatment, and I can't recall a single detail, which hardly seems fair. How many of us EVER get the royal treatment again?

My earliest memory is probably two, maybe three, a hazy impression of sitting on a high stool listening to my mother and an elderly woman. Mama knows exactly who and what that describes, but I do not.

When I was two, my mother was pregnant a third time, and was confined to bed. I don't remember that either. I played alone a lot while she desperately tried to keep the baby safe and secure within her womb, but I don't remember it. I know that as much as I love people, there are times I must be alone. I get "peopled out" and maybe this is something genetically mapped early on. I don't know. I just don't know.

When my baby brother died, I don't know if I cried or not. I grew up hearing the story, seeing the photograph of funeral flowers, seeing the photo of his still, perfectly formed shape, but I had no personal connection.

Out of 55 years, I remember close to 50 fairly well. I wonder why we're made that way? Why don't we recall every significant occurrence that has done its part to shape who and what we are? Or more accurately, who and what we are becoming. At 55, I am more finished than I was, say, at 17, but not as complete as the woman as I intend to be at 80. I know some things I want to see happen between now and then, and I don't have a clue how it will all pan out, but I'm determined to enjoy the journey.

What have I learned in 55 years? I learned how to cry early on. Turn over, crawl - pretty impressive feats, given my tender age. I learned to walk, talk, use the potty, obey my parents, play with paper dolls. I learned how to do math and use the English language. Learned to read, color inside (and outside, if I felt like it) the lines. Learned how to cook simple dishes (I haven't progressed very far from that). Learned to play a few musical instruments, the names of the states, how to braid hair, and (because I am a Southern woman and Raised Right) how to clean and sew.

I learned that people almost always do exactly what they want to do, regardless of what they say about it. That God exists and will do exactly what HE wants, regardless of how I feel about it. That love can be fierce, loss is physically painful, joy is as necessary to existence as oxygen or food. I learned that I feel loved when I am touched and when I am talked to, which makes me a cheap date, perhaps, but an appreciative one.

I learned from observing my parents and sister, relatives, friends, from reading books and listening to people. I learned a lot from sitting around a breakfast table while a bunch of cranky men talked to one another. I learned how to adapt to almost anything, and then I learned (only fairly recently) that I don't have to adapt to a damn thing unless I choose to.

I kiss well, I'm told. I could tell you other things I'm pretty good at (most of them), but I'm not genius at anything. It is one of the banes of my existence, because I always wanted to be the Best at Something, and I'm not. I could also tell you  the areas of great struggle and weakness that serve as the meat of most of my personal prayers. If you find fault with me, believe me when I say, it's no surprise. I'm already well aware of whatever fault you see, so you might as well save your breath.

In other words,  I know myself pretty well despite that annoying initial fog as a toddler. For the most part, I'm pleased with the skin I'm in (although I'd like to reduce the amount by several pounds). I'm not the girl I was, or the woman I will become, but for now, with the help of God and love and mercy and tenderness, I'm okay. Really. And thanks for asking.

On second thought, I am the Best at Something. Being me. Warts and all.


(c) Ellen Gillette, 2012