Because who doesn't want to read the memoir of a 33 year old nobody from Provo, UT who hit the big time in Rexburg, ID???
I remember a light-filled nursery with a yellowish linoleum floor and an old fashioned sink surrounded by white kitchen cabinets--vestiges of the apartment that the upper floor had been in my 1910 four square house.
I remember a gold-framed print of a brown giraffe surrounded by pink, yellow, and green pastel colors, and I remember lying in my crib, mesmerized by a growth chart with another giraffe on it.
I remember the rough plastic texture of a changing pad, the feeling of the hard counter on my head under the softness of the blankets my mom used to set me on, the indignity of diaper changes (Not really. But I can guess that they felt like an indignity).
I remember running around the house after a bath, hiding in my mom's closet, wrapped in a towel, trying to avoid pajamas and their unwelcome companion, bed time.
I remember being really confused, thinking that my oldest sister Erin was my mom. But how could she be my mom if my mom was my mom?
I remember my mom's elegant and steady hands. They were very thin and the veins were prominent. I remember her hands at changing time, at bath time, at feeding time. I remember my first feelings of jealousy when I saw my mother's hands wrapped around the tummy of my baby cousin, just a few months younger than me. What the heck was she doing holding someone else?
I remember the mysterious appeal of a large ant hill in our backyard, all those red insects crawling in and out of it. Why wouldn't the next logical step be to sit right on top of it wearing only a diaper? I remember the painful red welts all over my legs and bottom as I sat in a bath tub.
I remember my mother sighing.
Mostly I remember giraffes in my nursery.