Earliest Memory

When I was living in Europe under some pretty stressful circumstances as a missionary, I had a hard time falling asleep sometimes.  In those nights, when my mind swirled with questions and homesickness, I would of often try to think of my memories. 

I have a good memory.  I think it's because I moved around so much (Army brat here) and so I can compartmentalize my memories--the question where was I living? helped me answer how old I was and helped me fill in other details. 

I don't know how accurate these are.  After talking to my mom, and other siblings, and even checking my journals (which I wrote daily from age twelve till about twenty-three) I've realized that not everything I remember is true. 

At the suggestion of a friend from high school, I'm starting a memory journal.  I haven't decided if I'm going to use names of those I associated with during my fragile and impressionable years.  Heck, I may not get to the insecurities and angsty teen years.  Those were not my best years, fraught with turbulent emotions of a teenage girl.  Those years are best forgotten.  But I will start with my earliest memories and see where it takes me.  Without further ado...

The smell of oil painting and turpentine bring these memory back.  My mother, always quick to try new things had set a table out in our living room with all sorts of interesting things.  This time she was painting little daisies.  I don't remember doing the deed, but I remember my mom, sitting on the stairs sobbing large boo-hoos, holding a picture of something in her hand.  I had never seen my mom, boo-hoo like that, heart wrenching, gut wrenching doubling over cries.  My dad was very distraught.  He didn't like to see my mom cry.  As a two year old.  I didn't know why she was crying.  In fact, I wasn't even aware that I was the one who was causing her to cry.  I remember feeling very confused at the weirdness of my parents.  Later, when I asked her about this memory, my mom said I had taken one of her daisies that she had spent so long painting and scrambled it with my little finger.  I have no memory of scrambling the daisy.  I am so glad that they didn't yell at me because I think I would not have connected to the two events.  Because of this memory, actually remembering that I felt confusion and no guilt at what I did, I am always careful when I discipline my kids to help them to understand what I'm feeling and why.  Emotions are tough to understand when we are young.