As an infant, all I wanted was peace. I just wanted to go back into the cave and sleep peacefully. But alas!
I cried a lot. Trust me. I didn't like crying. My ears would hurt but I didn't know how to stop. But mom did. She would just hum a tune to me.
I was never the center of attention as a child. Needless to say, I was an ugly looking baby. A few unknown faces would often lean over me and smile anyhow. I liked how my mother would give the bed a little push from time to time. If only had this life had lasted longer...
A fat lady in white was kept to babysit me. She was angry and scary. She had tried to kill me on so many occasions while trying to pat me to sleep. Who keeps a gigantic sumo-wrestling champion to look after an infant?! She had a strange laughter. Mom called her Amanda. Dad called her Woody Weightpicker.
As I grew older, I left the cradle, joined school, learnt to drink from a bottle, shout when I needed food, cry when I was sleepy, share my bed with the stuffed toys, pronounce "Baba" and not to bite the pillows. Time went by and the milk started tasting different, the bed felt smaller, legos were replaced by dull coloring books and the diapers didn't fit. Life was slowly falling apart for a 1 year old. Mid-infantile crisis.
I moved on. I started learning alphabets. I could sing all the nursery rhymes pretty well, crawl faster than the other kids at school, listened to everyone and I didn't eat crayons. I was labeled "the best kid" by my teachers. That December, I turned 2.
