Home Life as a Toddler

The first place I remember living was this apartment in Clackamas. My brother was just a baby. I remember going into his room one night while my mom was reading him a book in a rocking chair by his crib. The room was pretty empty except for the two pieces of furniture and a giant white teddy bear in the corner. The window looked black against the night and reflected the light attached to the ceiling. I remember entering the room and my mom’s smile as she noticed me.

My mom would have friends over after we were supposed to be in bed. Old friends she had when she was a street kid only a little bit prior to getting pregnant with me. I remember the faces, vaguely, but none of the names except those she had in the family photo albums with the names scribbled to the right of the photo. One of who was my mom’s best friend, Diane. Which happens to be my middle name.

I recently found after being added by the same Diane on a social networking site that they had made a pact. The daughter my mom would have would be named after her. Same goes for Diane. Diane had told me that she did not end up having children “or there would be a little Mary running around”. I got her name as my middle name because the first name picked out for me was that of an angle. My dad’s ploy to amuse my grandma, his mom.

My grandma was sort of religious back then. My dad would talk about his childhood very little, but one of the things I remember him saying is that his mom, at one point, made him answer the telephone when anyone called with a “Heaven-high!” instead of a “Hell-low”. Growing up, she had gotten less religious, still going to church though, and more laid back.

When my mom did have her friends around, it was mainly a small gathering of drinking. Nothing heavily and nothing scary. She was still young, completely understandable. She was still always mom first and very responsible. I do remember one of her friends. For some reason I can only remember his face looking like a Christian Slater. He sat me on his knee and bounced it up and down. I called it a “horsey ride” and it was then my favorite thing that aunts and uncles would do, me asking for it and at first my mom having to explain what I meant by it.

I remember when we left that apartment. My mom was finishing the cleaning up, and I was with her. My brother was with our dad. We paintedĀ  our nails and dried them on the fan she had spinning on the living room floor. We finished sitting on the third floor balcony of our apartment, eating bean burritos and tacos from Taco Bell, dangling our feet off the edge of the railing and watching the sunset.

These little memories that I have, I cherish very much. It’s probably an enchancment to my wonderful memory. Forgetting is a simple fear of mine. Not remembering an incident is a scary thought. If I had gone and not remembered a memory, it would be just for the fact that I just not have thought about it in such a long time. If someone were to bring it up, I could remember the full details if someone has mentioned it. My mom has been showing signs of earlier Alzheimers within the last few years these days, not only is my fear of losing mine growing stronger, but also that my mom may lose hers.

 

 

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When I Was A Wee Lass

I was a pretty independent kid. I can remember quite a lot of my childhood. My first memory being just turned 3 a month prior is of my little brother being born. I remember being led down the hallway by my very enthusiastic and child-at-heart grandma. I ran my fingers along the bleach white tiles, my other little hand in hers. I didn’t understand where I was or why I was there. I believe I remember being told, but my little 3 year old brain didn’t process it that well. I remember the smell. The smell of hospital that always, since I can remember, smelt like safe for me. The smell people recognize as disinfectant, rubber gloves, hand sanitizer, and, as some who felt the need to bring this to attention when I mentioned liking the smell of hospitals, death. I, for one, can not see how a hospital can smell like death. Unless you are speaking metaphorically. I’m pretty sure death would smell pretty horrible. And however long death had lingered, probably pukingly horrid.

I only smelt death once. The summer when I was 22. I was walking along the side of the road in probably 80 degree heat (hot for me, but not hot for most people in southern states) with my boyfriend. I was some late months pregnant and we were going out for a little dinner at some bar and grill. Off the sidewalk, against a curb, was a dead raccoon. It was smoldering in the summer heat and probably dead for a week and a half, it seemed. I refused to look at it, naturally, but the smell was putrid. Nothing I would identify with a hospital.

Anyway, that was long after my 3 year old encounter with my newborn baby brother. Which was a bit odd, if I may go on. I remember two parts of my brother’s birth. The rest was filled in by stories from both my grandma and my mom throughout the course of my life. The first being what I had previously described as being led down the hallway by my grandma, and the second, actually watching the birth of my brother.

I was sitting on the other end of the room with my grandma on a narrow bench. The room was pretty dim, or maybe it seemed that way from the super light that was pointing down at my mom. It must have made everything else look pretty dark. Or maybe that is just how I remember it. Anyway, I just remember this big bulb coming out of my mom. And what do I do? I turn to my grandma and blurt out quite casually, “Grandma, Mommy’s pooping!”

And that is that. That is the very first memory I can recall.

 

 

 

I heard somewhere from someone who quoted someone else or another about how memories are most likely false and lies. That during a passage of times, your memory fades and gets replaced by a lie. I refused to believe this, but somehow I can’t get it out of my head (what if the memory of someone telling me memories are lies is actually a lie?).

If this is true, I would be pretty saddened. My memories are the best thing that I have had. Sure, I have had some screwed up things that have happened to me, but I have also had some good things, not to mention a fairly happy childhood (as odd of a kid I was). I just thought I’d throw this in here. I can’t say much about it as I had casually shrugged it off and only remember a portion of what that person told me (I was annoyed at the time by an unrelated incident having to do with my son not listening to me about something I said no to him about so I tuned most of it out). If you all have anything to add to this subject, feel free to bring it up.

I Guess This Is Where I Start

I’ll put it plain and simple. First of all, I’m just going to ask you to call me Elle. That is only part of my real first name. That isn’t the nickname that everyone I know calls me, but some do. All other names in this blog are changed to protect others’ privacy. No, I’m not just saying that because that’s what some author’s write in the beginning of their biographies or memoirs. I haveĀ  a lot of inner monologue I usually keep to myself. Usually meaning always. Some drunken socializing has, as expected, let slip my inner thoughts here and there, but basic details were all that was told.

No, I have not killed anyone. No, I’m not in any witness protection program. I’m just a regular girl (or woman) (lady?) who just keeps things to herself. This blog is to let everything out, and of course, to allow strangers to know the inner me that even my mom hasn’t been able to figure out yet.

I was born in the cool (and weird) city of Portland, Oregon. And it is true what they say. You try to leave Oregon, you always end up finding yourself back here. I’ve probably moved from the state at least 6 times and always ended up back. I enjoy my home, the trees, the clean air smell, the people, the weather not so much. Rain never was my thing, but I’ve learned to deal with it, ignore it if you will.

I’m 26 years old, born October 13, 1989. And as I love mentioning to those who are willing to open an ear, I was also born on a friday on a full moon (OOooooooOOOoooooh spoooky). Yes, yes, I know. I’m too young to write a memoir. I am not too young, however, to START a biography. I’m not sure how this will go. Will people read it? Will people be able to even find it? If you have, then I welcome you. If you are still reading this, and I hope you are, bear with me. It’s going to be a stretch for both of us. Like any other book, article, or social networking “about me” profile, the beginning is always a strain. I’m going to make this part as short as possible. You don’t need a whole “about me” in the first part of my story. You’ll learn more and more about me as we go. In fact, I’m going to leave it here with this in which Jack Kerouac wrote somewhere I happened upon that has stuck in the temporal lobe of my brain ever since

“One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.”