This evening, my dad yelled up the steps, "Saaamantha, I wanna show you something!" When I turned the corner, I found my toddler self filling up the big HD television screen. Since I was expecting our latest Netflix movie, Happy Feet Two, I was a little taken back by the sudden walk down memory lane.
With no explanation, Dad played the video. This particular moment has become infamous; I was about a year old, and Mom and I are engaged in our first fight. I'd been carrying around a pen, and she took it from me. I was not happy about this. Defiance etched into my tiny features (evident even through the baby fat), I went after the pen time and time again. "Peeen!" I repeated, in a mixture of baby talk and a dreaded Carolina drawl. Finally, I managed to get a hold on just the cap, leaving mom with the naked pen. I looked at the cap like the world stopped for a moment, forgetting my anger, and urged Mom to fix it. She did, and I resumed my quest.
The showdown lasted for quite some time, according to my parents. It is ever so fitting that my first argument featured a pen.
I found myself marveling over how that little creature, a vocabulary about twenty words long and about three hairs on her head, somehow grew into the me typing this right now. I don't believe in anything divine, but watching that video really made me feel like some sort of miracle.
Even though me and the toddler appear to have very little in common, you can see the grown me brewing under the surface.
The only birthday presents my one year old brain was drawn to were books. I tried opening one on my lap, but my undeveloped fine motor skills were no match for the intricate clasps. Maybe different drives propel me to eagerly open my books now, but then again, maybe not.
It was clear my Grandma Meg was my favorite person. Any time she appeared on the screen, I was right there with her. My favorite video was of my first trip to the beach. Ironically, the timestamp on the camcorder shows it occurred nineteen years ago today. Mom and Dad were unpacking the car outside of the hotel, and Grandma had already scooped me up and was halfway down the beach. Dad quickly found the camcorder, and you can hear Mom complaining about being robbed of her daughter's first encounter with the ocean.
But in the living room, Mom's real time complaints sound half-hearted. We all pause a little at seeing Grandma's alive and healthy form on the screen, clutching me and waving to the camera with the ocean roaring behind us. I don't remember her hair being that dark, but I remember that beautiful, genuine laugh. Watching her hold me, I feel the softness of her skin and the warmth of her hug. I don't know if I'm grateful for the video, or just sad.
Everything is so new and exciting to that baby. I pick up and examine with great intensity every weed in the backyard, the sand on the beach, a speck of dirt on the floor. The ocean provides endless thrills, seeing it all for the very first time. I miss the world being wondrous. I miss the pure joy of an uninhibited existence. I miss my grandma.
