My first memory...

It started out a fine and dandy day - just as they all do - when all of a sudden the walls of my dark cozy room started pressing in on me, and after hours of discomfort I was launched into a cold and unforgiving world...!

...no not really, I can't remember being born. My first memory is, in all actuality, of a much less profound point in my life:

I was sitting in a shiny new red wagon in the front yard of our house. It was my birthday - somewhere around age 4 I'd assume - and my tiny hands were clenched around a long-awaited Thumbelina baby doll. Much to my disdain, my older cousin Nicole approached me, audaciously asked to see my brand new doll, and proceeded to snatch it away from me. Thinking I might never get it back, I burst into tears.

And there it is: my first memory is not of any significant point in my life. It's just a reminder of how painfully timid and possessive a child I was.

And here I am somewhere around that age. (Oh hey, this photo reminds me of another story. Can I write it...? To hell with it, it's in parentheses: that's my dad with the bagpipes; he's kind of my hero. Anyways, we're at the Scottish games, and they have lots of Scottish games at the Scottish games. Nonsensical, dangerous games, one of which is a telephone-pole toss. I don't remember this, but I'm told that on this particular year I - being adorable and little and...well, not smart - decided it'd be awesome to try to run across the field on which these telephone poles were being tossed. Thanks to my dad's quick reflexes, I'm alive to tell the story! Hahaha, ooohh Scottish games...)