For me, today is one of THOSE days – you know, the ones where we add yet another year to our age. I don’t like birthdays, well not my own at least. However, as I think about what to write for today’s assignment for Blogging 101, the thing I most want to blog about is my Birth Day. Not my birthday – the day of my birth. I think it’s something I’ll enjoy writing, and to hit two trees with one stone (killing birds is just cruel!) I’ll feel like I’m telling you something about myself, therefore doing the first day’s assignment at the same time!
I suffer from infantile amnesia, but don’t we all? However I have heard enough bits and pieces about my birth and the days leading up to it from my mother to be able to imagine what happened as if I’d actually been there. Well, I WAS there – but you get the drift.
I’ve always been an awkward person, a right royal pain in the proverbial ass. Due to give birth in September, my poor mother suffered one of the hottest summers of her life, although I suspect any summer would seem a real scorcher to a heavily pregnant woman. I have no pictures of her from that particular time, but I can see her in my mind’s eye, sitting in a deckchair in our back garden, her feet resting on a low stool, ankles like sausages straining to break free of their restrictive skin, fanning herself with the copy of Women’s Own she had clutched in one hand while she sipped iced lemon tea from a tall glass held in the other. My grandmother would have been fussing about everything, clucking like a hen, muttering that her daughter was a silly girl for having chosen the deckchair to sit in and where did she think she was anyway? New Brighton beach? Now the impending grandmother would have to ask one of the neighbours to help hoist the mother-to-be from out of the offending contraption, as God only knew when her good-for-nothing son-in-law would be back from the betting office to help her. My mother would be nodding in agreement, not wanting to cause any trouble, blanking out the tirade by concentrating on the rhythmic clicking of her mother’s knitting needles as they rattled away furiously like a demented metronome, churning out bootees, vests, bonnets, jackets and leggings. If the title had existed, I would have been named The Woolliest Baby in the Wirral!
(Image from http://www.kidsomania.com/ Hallowe’en Costumes)
Coming in Part 2: Short back and sides.