The person I currently spend the most time with (perhaps the person I’ve ever spent this much concentrated time with in my adult life) is my seven month daughter. Every day from 8:30 in the morning to 5 in the afternoon it is just me and her. She must put up with my choices in music, I must put up with her crying and spitting up all over me. While I’ll always remember this time, babies don’t remember anything. But maybe they do?
I try to think back of my first memory. I can remember the day my brother was born when I was four, almost five. I also have vague memories of my Mom being pregnant with him. But the furthest I’ve gone into memory lane was brought about by an old photograph I saw of myself being held in front of a little kiddie passenger train. It brought back a memory in my head of being on that train, one that I might have confused with a dream. I immediately asked where the picture was taken. It was at the old Crandon Park Zoo which closed down when I had just turned 2 years old. Maybe with other visual cues I could remember even further back and perhaps with hypnotism even deeper into the past.
So maybe my daughter does remember. Which means I should probably stop dressing and speaking as her British nanny when I’m around her.