This is the second entry in my series of stories about every year of my life.
I don’t yet have to start feeling bad about my bad memory because there are no existing memories in my head about the first year of my life. Likely no one has memories of that time of their lives. I have talked to people that claim they do remember their first months of life, but I generally opt for not taking these peoples financial advice.
Most of my old pictures live somewhere on the Latvian countryside in some hard to reach box. As I have been moving back and forth between Germany, Sweden and Latvia for the last years I have been taking with me only the essentials. Old pictures and embarrassing diaries are not on my essentials list. I know they exist but I have no access to them to kickstart any kind of story.
So in order to learn more about my first year of life, I called my mother in hopes to hear that I slept a lot or was particularly cute that one time.
What I got in return was the most typical exchange between me and my mother. I presented her with the setup and reason for my interest. She was very excited about the idea and said how important it is to keep in mind our past, in her second breath she started explaining to me how I really should first sit down and study carefully before I write anything.
And this captures two of the most typical responses I get from her to about anything I start or do – enthusiastic support, quickly followed by high (usually unrealistic) demands.
I like to blame on that behaviour model my immense fear starting anything new, but I am not a one year old anymore.
As a follow up to my first story I called my father and asked what his memory about my birth was and if he agreed with the choice of my name.
He did recount the events close enough to what my mother had told me, even though it seems I wasn’t dangled out of a window after all. He told me how he was sitting in the emergency ambulance, but couldn’t stay in the hospital. It was fun to talk about these little things with him. 5 out of 5 stars, would definitely recommend calling your parents and asking them to retell the story of your birth.
I asked again if he agreed with the decision to call me Liga or if there was even a discussion. What he said then was incredibly moving in its pragmatisms.
He said „Yes, we talked about it and it was just the right thing to do – sometimes you just now what the right thing to do is“
I am too afraid of asking my brother because he will make fun of me.
PS: Not my actual parents in the picture.
PPS: All pictures on the blog are made with an old analogue camera of the model FED-2.
Follow me on Twitter for updates on current book reads and to get notifications on new stories.