Mission Report
here
Mission Report
here
I think my first memory is me misremembering myself. I have a vague memory of a memory of myself as a child, the view of my short arms clutching a potty training toilet - its turquoise-blue - and running to tell my mom I successfully peed in the toilet. I think I must've spilt my own urine everywhere. I think this memory might not be real. I tend to remember things incorrect, or in third person, if at all. I usually remember me remembering something, and each layer of re-memory gets more and more blurry.
My second memory might be of Montessori, when I must've been three or four. I remember warm coloured walls in a semi-hidden corner where a vase with pussywillows sat. I recall another child, a boy. I recall laughter as we touch the soft, fuzzy pussywillow buds and pluck one or two off. I think it must've been him first, him who put a bud in his bellybutton to resounding laughter. I think it must've been I who followed. I don't know why, but I remember this is where my fear - or discomfort - with bellybuttons started. Did the pussywillow get stuck? Did it feel gross? Was I embarrassed once caught? I do not remember.
I don't have this memory, but it was told to me. The first day of kindergarten, I am terrified. I am finally, finally not crying. I am alone, painting with those crappy, water soluble, kid-friendly paints that are the absolute worst. My best friend for years, Claire, who is a stranger at the time approaches. She tells me "Grass isn't purple." I begin to cry. I am sent home, inconsolable.
In games of 'family' in kindergarten, there would be a mom, a dad, a boy, and a girl. Then me, with the role not of sister or aunt or anything else - but family dog. I would yip and pant and play ball. I would not be mother. I guess not much has changed.
I am now realizing a lot of my early childhood memories are bathroom stories. This is only the second one of those. I am in grade one, maybe six years old, bundled in snowpants, jacket, mitts, hat, sweater, pants, socks, and shirt. I am playing in what feels like five feet of snow in the vast schoolyard, though knowing my height, it was likely only two or three. I recall this sudden urgency of needing to use the washroom, and making the long, urgent trek down the hill from the furtherest corner of the yard. The yard-duty volunteer is kind, and gives me a clothespin to let me inside to use the washroom. I am relieved. The feeling is so overwhelming that I have to take quick, short steps or else I feared I would- y'know. And yet, as the warmth of the hallway sinks into my frozen fingers, the piss in my bladder soaks out of me and into my socks. And boots. And pants. And probably snowpants. I am six years old, and there is nothing but shame. I am alone, scared, and soaked in my own urine. But more than that, I am ashamed. I cry - a common through point by now - and eventually, my first grade teacher hears me in the hallway and approaches me. Miss Smith. I remember her being beautiful and kind. I remember being so embarrassed I can barely speak. I don't know how, or when, but I am changing into fresh underwear and pants, and my dad is driving me home with a bag of pissed-logged clothes in a plastic bag. I am ashamed. I resolve I will never, never do this again. I will never lose control in that way. I will never. And I don't.