by E. P. Ned Burke

Created on: May 01, 2008

Why I Don't Recall My Early Years

They say few of us can remember what happened the first years of our lives.

However I have a cousin Earl who says he can recall his actual birth and even the sadistic face of the doctor who slapped his backside. Of course, Earl can't remember where he put his car keys five minutes ago, but he often tells me in colorful detail his entrance into this world and even the color of the walls in the baby nursery and the surnames of all his squealing baby roommates.

Thankfully, I wasn't burdened with Earl's mental capacity. For if I were, I'm certain I would have been scarred for life. Looking back, I was nothing more than a helpless defecating glob of matter waiting for my next meal. I was totally dependent on those around me, which was frightening when I got my first glimpse of the dysfunctional family I had inherited.

First, there was Mom. She seemed to spend most of her waking hours in a place called the kitchen. This is where the consumables were prepared for the other members of the family. My nourishment, when it did finally arrive, came in a warm bottle and tasted funny. The good stuff, like candy and pizza, went to the other members of the family.

After I'd consumed enough and eliminated it all to everyone's dissatisfaction, I was put to bed. But I wasn't tired. So I whined and screamed to get attention. But then Mom would come in with an "attitude" and tell me to go back to sleep.

I mean, what was her problem?

Then there was Dad.

Ah, good old beer drinking, burping Dad. This guy, I didn't get at all. He smelled of Old Spice in the morning and bad deodorant at night. Where he went the rest of the day was a mystery to me. All I knew was that he'd always complain about somebody called "The Boss." I figured it was because "The Boss" had a lot more consumables than poor old Dad.

When the weekend came, Dad was home all day. Most of his time consisted of intense concentration in front of a glass box with miniature people inside. These people were dressed in tight-fitting costumes and wore strange headgear emblazoned with the names of exotic animals. The little people had shirts with big numbers on them. My guess was that the numbers represented the I.Q. of the wearer.

Dad did a lot of yelling at the glass box, especially after emptying several cans of a foamy liquid. Sometimes, Dad's friends would join him in yelling and drinking. Later, Dad would fall asleep in front of the glass box and Mom would call her friends and complain about Dad.

Then there was Sis. She was a younger version of Mom. She liked to pick me up and show me off to her friends. Sometimes, when Mom and Dad went out at night, Sis would take care of me. She was very attentive until her boyfriend showed up. That was when I was hustled off to my room so Sis and her boyfriend could do all those strange things that Mom and Dad didn't want her to do.

Lastly, there was Grandma. She was an older version of Mom. Grandma smelled of talcum powder and talked in a strange goo-goo language I didn't understand. She liked to rock me in a
moving chair until I threw up on her shoulder.

I liked Grandma best. Unfortunately, she tired easily. That was when she'd hand me off to Grandpa who had a habit of always dropping me on my head.

And that is why I don't remember my early years.

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