The Best Kind of Baby
When I was little, my dad used to call me "Jessica Jean, the baby machine." He did NOT mean a machine for making babies. Rather, I was a baby much like a machine--strong, powerful, capable. I liked this nickname. I wasn't just a baby, I was an awesome baby. Plus, my middle name ryhmes with machine.
Well, Justin and I were at my mom's house the other day, doing yardwork and general chores for her. At one point, we sat down in the living room to take a break, to find a little reprieve from the hot, heavy air around us. My mom and I were telling family stories, about when us kids were little. Bad babysitters, old friends, silly stories, and I brought up the Baby Machine nickname.
My mom related a story about me, how on the first day of preschool I introduced myself as "Jessica Jean, baby machine." Everybody laughed at me, and when I got home, I was fuming. I have ALWAYS hated being laughed at when I'm not trying to be funny. My mom was laughing and laughing, remembering how angry I was, a tiny little human being, already demanding appreciation and understanding ridicule.
At first, I didn't remember this at all. It was an old memory from out of nowhere, I didn't have time to recall it. Now, a few days later, I have not so much a picture memory as a feeling. Deep in my stomach, all over, a tingly memory. I remember being proud to announce my name to the class, to let people know I was not just an ordinary child, I was child 2.0, Baby Machine. I remember being mad and upset when people laughed, when nobody understood.
Maybe this is where the seed was planted that later made me hope to be a writer, this desire to be understood. To show everybody exactly what I mean, with no confusion, so they can see how right I am.
Well, Justin and I were at my mom's house the other day, doing yardwork and general chores for her. At one point, we sat down in the living room to take a break, to find a little reprieve from the hot, heavy air around us. My mom and I were telling family stories, about when us kids were little. Bad babysitters, old friends, silly stories, and I brought up the Baby Machine nickname.
My mom related a story about me, how on the first day of preschool I introduced myself as "Jessica Jean, baby machine." Everybody laughed at me, and when I got home, I was fuming. I have ALWAYS hated being laughed at when I'm not trying to be funny. My mom was laughing and laughing, remembering how angry I was, a tiny little human being, already demanding appreciation and understanding ridicule.
At first, I didn't remember this at all. It was an old memory from out of nowhere, I didn't have time to recall it. Now, a few days later, I have not so much a picture memory as a feeling. Deep in my stomach, all over, a tingly memory. I remember being proud to announce my name to the class, to let people know I was not just an ordinary child, I was child 2.0, Baby Machine. I remember being mad and upset when people laughed, when nobody understood.
Maybe this is where the seed was planted that later made me hope to be a writer, this desire to be understood. To show everybody exactly what I mean, with no confusion, so they can see how right I am.
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