I never conceived my own children.
I remember some years ago bragging that my memory receded as far back as the baby stroller, remembering the hood of the carriage, sensations and discomfort. My mother spoke up and said, “Then you remember the accident.” Within a flash, vivid images raced across my brain of a woman whose car was hit by a train when I was in my stroller. My mother added that she had a difficult time wheeling me across the railroad tracks after that. Later on, she and I would relive the experience when my father was hit by a train. This time, she screamed when we went over the railroad tracks.
If there is a format for childhood, a rule book, then some of it must have been printed in a different language. I know, it sounds like a dark perception, but in a real world childhood may have more involvement in destiny than fantasy. Or maybe it is a crap shot. Yet, we all start out exactly the same way.
The first aspect of childhood is conception within the womb where you build your first relationship in life. This is where your spirit takes up residence. You are innocent, vulnerable, maybe lucky to be born to good fortune, but when the doctor ties off your belly button, the remains of the umbilical cord follow you forever. You can’t see it. You don’t talk about it. More than likely we all ignore it.
When my mother was diagnosed with cancer, I knew it immediately and when I remember her, my memory goes all the way back to the stroller. I will always be that child.