Tuesday, January 17, 2012
Like most people I don’t remember a whole lot when it comes to remembering my childhood. But I do remember not talking a lot. Isn’t that odd? That’s what I remember about my childhood?
I think this is confirmed because my older sister Page once made a drawing of her childhood and she said when it came to placing me into the picture I was “off by the bushes quietly talking to myself” but not to anyone around me.
Also my Aunt Cindy said it’s true that I didn’t talk a lot. I was the sixth of nine, you see and I didn't demand much attention. And even though my parents took good care of me, she said she’d worry about me, socially-like. This explains why she sent me a birthday gift when I was twelve from Laguna Beach where she lived.
It was a hot pink and white striped shirt with beaded and sequined artwork on the back--a "conversation starter" if you will--and no one else in my family got a birthday present from Aunt Cindy that year. Just me.
The funny thing is that now, as an adult, I talk a lot but I never like it. If I were truer to myself I’d probably only talk about one fourth as much as I do. I really think my nature is to be a shy person, but I’ve taught myself to be more gregarious. More out-going. More chatty. All of these qualities seemed more of a sure bet for life. But when I am not blabbing around, I feel much more like me.
And even now I am telling myself, shhhhh.
this month I've decided to write a book while simultaneously breastfeeding my baby and battling the postpartum blues. should be a blast. stay tuned.