In The Beginning...

Today my mother sent me an email after she was alerted to the existence of my blog by a completely unrelated third party (hi dad).

Bunny
I love this, but I'm afraid the best opening line of all has to be 'In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth', I mean that has got to be it.
Have been trying to phone you.
Love Mum

All religious overtones aside, this email got me thinking about other firsts. Particularly first words AND the first thing a parent says to their child. Snotty nosed brats the world over seem to be always screeching for their parents to tell the story of when they were born. They want to know what was said to them and which word they said first; “Mum”, “Dad” or an expletive they heard from their drunken Aunty shrieking at Grandma’s email (why call me Bunny for gods sake, what’s wrong with Hammerhead or Viper)?

Anyway, this led me to a thought. What if my Call Me Ishmael Syndrome is due to my story of my mother’s first words to me?

Let me explain.

I am the fourth of five children (two fostered, one acquired and two biological- of which I am one). Each of my three older brothers was born with some kind of body malfunction (and not just brother-itis). Anyway, while trapped in my mother’s womb I was rather lackadaisical, some might say a zygote procrastinator. I put off swimming around, rolling over… any kind of physical activity really. So when I was finally born, one side of my face was scrunched in a face plant/afternoon nap sort of way. My ear copped the worst of it. My poor right earlobe is, to this day, sort of folded over. My dad said it resembled a dried apricot after kicking around in a kid’s school bag for a few days.

Anyway, after each of my brothers having something “wrong” with them (each slightly more serious than dried fruit - although I have often said my exquisite brother Charlie's only disability is having us for a family) my Mum was slightly concerned about my wellbeing. However all she could say upon my arrival into this world was…

“She’s deformed!”

Imagine looking down at your beautiful daughter complete with curly blonde hair and uttering the words, "she’s deformed"! Deformed indeed… I’m sorry mum, what? I couldn’t hear you… pardon? My DEFORMED ear seems to be muffling your instructions.

It all makes perfect sense. In fact, it’s visionary! I bet it’s never be done before… I just blame my mother! And that way I can also blame her for the creatively moribund sphere currently wearing me as a hat. And don’t think you get off scot free dad. My dad, dear old dad. Whose first piece of parenting advice to me (upon moving out into the big bad world at the tender age of eighteen) was… “Sweedheart, steer clear of the clap”.

Ah yes, my father the bard.

But seriously I think the inexplicably bad first lines that plague my family stories are the birthplace of my syndrome. I can’t bear to have the dry remnants of yet another bad first line hanging over my creative subconscious. It’s like the fetid afterbirth of family story time. Or like an episode of Family Ties without the laugh track, just the distant sound of a confused cricket.

In the beginning, mum… in the beginning.