I remember. I remember. I remember being born. When I was born I knew. I could think like an adult, but I wasn’t. I remember being cold, wet, and frightened. I remember a man with brown hair, horn rimmed glasses, and a white coat. He was holding me, and then he put me down into something. I think it might’ve been a cot. He looked at me and then he turned around and walked away and he looked blurred through my tears.
My next memory is of my mother holding me and feeding me, and looking up and seeing my father coming through the door home from work. I wanted to sit up and have him pick me up and hug me but mum wouldn’t let me. I was so angry, I threw the biggest hissy fit, screaming and kicking.
My next memory is of being in my pram with my father pushing it and wanting to sit up, but he made me lie down, and I was so angry again. I was screaming and screaming and I remember when we got home him saying to my mom that I hated him. Of course, she laughed and said, “don’t be silly.”
My next memory is of sitting in my pram in the front garden and a next-door lady waving to me and talking baby talk to me. I remember thinking how silly she was because at that time even though I was a little over a year old, I could speak full sentences just like an adult.
Next, I remember my mum boiling a pot with my diapers in it, as we had no washing machines then. She said something, calling me Susan. I replied that my name was not Susan, it was Jenny. I have no idea where that came from, I just knew it was so.