This is the third entry in the series of stories about my life. You can read the previous here and here. I write about the bits and pieces I remember or know from my family. During the writing process, I am trying to figure out more about my current self and growing up in general.
Deep-seeded Catholic guilt
I am two years old and I have made my first encounter with organized religion – I have been baptized. The religion I officially belong to is Catholicism. It wasn’t practised actively around me while I was growing up but just enough to develop in me the deep seeded Catholic guilt. For those not familiar with this condition it is a state in which you feel guilty and responsible for everything that happens around you in a radius of 7 meters. This makes for a bit of an unhealthy mental state, but makes you a great host for parties.
Also at around the same time, I refused to eat from the bottle. The story goes that I was screaming terribly when my mother tried to give it to me. This made my then 6-year-old brother so upset that he supposedly walked to my mother, took the bottle and said: “This needs to stop, I can’t take it anymore!” I believe this was the last time he articulated his feelings that well. My mother resolved to just feed me with a spoon. I always think that this was an early sign of my advanced brain development.
Otherwise, I was a fat and pretty calm baby. I had (and still have) round chubby cheeks and my face would turn even rounder when I smiled.
I know we were living in the Latvian countryside, just near the beach which we would visit every day during summer. I know my mother nursed me while sunbathing there. Just the thought of that puts the smell of warm sand in my nose. The Baltic sea has very little salt so you can swim in it with your eyes open, but there is really not much to see. Not much to see in the sea.
What were my first words, when did I take my first steps and when did I use the adult size toilette for the first time
The lines between my ages during the first years get really blurry. It is hard to tell when I stopped being a baby and when I started to run around.
Since I started this series I have learnt that a notebook exists which documents all of my early achievements. Down to such lovely details like what were my first words, when did I take my first steps and when did I use the adult size toilette for the first time. I will try to get my hands on that during the upcoming Easter holidays. My mother claims there is a picture for all of my birthdays. I have never seen a baby picture of myself, so I remain a sceptic.
I am convinced I wouldn’t recognise an image of me as a baby, but I see my grown-up self in the descriptions of toddler Liga.
On the one hand, I think this doesn’t make sense at all. We all are just little bundles of gibberish for the first few year, but at the same time, I am starting to remember that I felt already then so deeply. It scares me to think that the emotions felt then still govern my life now.
I haven’t arrived at any conclusion quite yet, but there is still 26 years to go. At this rate, I will age another year before I will be done. But that just means more stories to tell.
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