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MY FIRST BIRTHDAY 2/19/2011 5:31:05 AM
MY FIRST BIRTHDAY by Alexandra E. Faucette (née Mills)
as told to her father, Robert A. Mills
I am now 26 years old, but I remember the exact instant when I was born. And I recall the precise moment I had my very first thought.
It was: I wish they would turn out the darn light!
I was six hours old. I had been born at 11:20 PM, and sometime before dawn I became aware I was inside a sort of plastic container. My view was distorted because the plastic was old and scratched, slightly curved. Overhead was a huge fluorescent light going full blast!
Now, most people think newborns can’t see much until the few weeks after birth. A myth! Newborns — particularly girls — see remarkably well, considering we have been in the dark for nine months.
That morning I saw I was in a bright room with several women in white uniforms and blue gowns. Other babies in plastic baskets were all around me, most bellowing their lungs out.
So – I deci
ded I would, too. Baaaaaaaaaaaaaah-waaaaaaaaaaaaah!
And that was the first thing I learned: if I wailed loud enough, long enough, one of the white uniforms or blue gowns would come and lean over and do something. Of course, they never did turn out the fluorescents overhead, so eventually I closed my eyes — and a most miraculous thing happened. I fell asleep!
My next memory was being carried by my father from the driveway, up a short walk, to the big house, which was to be my home. I remember it was a cold, gray day in late February.
This was the first time I had laid eyes on my father—my daddy—and I was very impressed. He was tall and extremely handsome, with gorgeous curly, silver hair. Being a girl, I hoped I would grow up with hair just like his!
There was chaos in the foyer of the big house, but I knew immediately who my mother was. Daddy gently, carefully, as though I were made of Waterford crystal, handed me to her, and the instant I was in her arms I knew I was home.
There was something about the way she held me, the sweet smell of her, her childishly pretty face, the way she whispered my name and cooed over me, weeping a little . . . I would have spotted her anywhere, she was that obvious!
One thing I noticed was a “live” stuffed animal they called Chloe. Naturally, I, like all children, had been born with the ability to speak Stuffinese, the universal silent language of stuffed animals and dolls, but when I tried to communicate with Chloe — it turned out she was NOT a stuffed animal at all, but a house pet called a “dog” — she ignored my attempts at conversation and spent the entire next two years barking and growling at me and trying to lick my face — which would have been great fun except Chloe had breath bad enough to start a snow blower. At least, that’s the way Henry Wadsworth Longears put it.
It wasn’t until a week after I was home that I met my dear old friend Henry.
He was a stuffed rabbit and, at that time, nearly twice my size. He had incredibly long, floppy ears; he immediately became my Numero Uno playmate, crib-partner, confidant, best friend, and mentor. He, unlike Chloe, responded to Stuffinese right off the bat.
“Took you long enough to get here,” he said, when we first noticed each other.
“How long you here?” I asked.
“I dunno. Week or two. Your aunt sent me up inna box.”
“Where from?” I wondered.
“I dunno. I was in this shop an’ somebody boxed me up an’ sent me east — or south, maybe — anyway, I wound up here, waitin’ for you, Godot. I don’t know how these things work, kiddo. I guess every brat winds up with someone like me for the first five or ten years — somebody to look out for theme an’ show ‘em the ropes. An’ then when they get a little older, it’s adios muchachos! If they’re girls, they find boys, an’ visa versa, an’ by then we can’t even talk to each other. Life can be a bummer.”
I asked, “Were you always a stuffed animal?”
“Naw. I started out as a cartoon character. My mom was one of Bugs Bunny’s 1,273 daughters, an’ I figured I’d have a career in ‘toons, but there’s no work anymore. That’s where stuffed animals come from. If you can’t make it in on TV or in ‘toons, they stuff you up and send you out to take care of some kid somewhere. ‘Course, Mickey an’ Minnie, Donald, Pluto, Goofy, an’ that bunch aren’t stuffed animals — I mean, they got their own studios an’ amusement parks an’ stuff like that. But they don’t have the ‘Cuddles’ . . . ”
I pursed my lips into a perfect bow. “The Cuddles?”
“Yeah, you know, soft an’ furry an’ warm — like me. I mean, who you ever know went to bed with Mickey or Donald, or tried to cuddle up with Goofy or Pluto? ‘Course, Bugs is still goin’ strong on TV — ”
“What’s TV?” I interrupted.
“You’ll find out. TV’s a legally controlled substance. Once they start force-feedin’ you your daily dose, you’ll get hooked like the rest of ‘em. But that’s life inna fast playpen, kiddo. . . . You wanna have a birthday party?”
And Henry began, that very night, planning my first birthday party. As the months flew by and the day grew closer, it was all he wanted to talk about.
