I wish that I had pictures of myself as an infant. I suppose it was a difficult thing for my parents to see their child all yellow, lying in an incubator, and dwindling in weight by the hour. Besides, photography then was nothing like it is today. But I often wonder about just what it might have looked like to receive a miracle - what the photos sitting side by side could have evidenced.
The test results were baffling. It wasn't even standard procedure to run the test again.
But there they stood.
Doctors and parents in a hospital room bewildered.
No spot, no obstruction, no fever. Just an underweight baby who must be held for observation a bit longer, and when they did take me home, instructions to sit me near the window a few times a day to absorb the sunlight and all its benefits. Oh how I adore the sunlight even today.
God had answered prayers. My parents knew it. No matter who else believed in miracles or didn't, there was proof positive that we had received one. A healthy baby girl they would affectionately call "Shelly" though not the name they chose for the official certificate of birth, was brought home and doted over. The first girl in the family. The first granddaughter, niece, sister, you name it. Yes, I was spoiled in any way they could afford, though probably more so by the giddy baby-talk and never being allowed to have my feet touch the ground as being passed from person to person than in actual material gifts being showered upon me.
My first memories were probably a month or so before this picture was taken.
I once asked my mom if we were ever in a park with picnic tables and a ball field where I was sat near a big tree possibly in a play pen because I had memories of people eating, playing baseball, and sitting next to a huge tree, but all memories were as if I was looking through a screen. She told me that I was probably around 10 to 12 months old when the church picnic was held at the local park. I don't remember this particular day when my aunt gave me a bath, dressed me and then just had to take my picture with the towel on my head. I don't know why, but it's one of my favorite pictures of myself as a child. Maybe because it now reminds me so much of my youngest when he was so small. Poor kid, always being compared to mommy.
And then there was my mom and my brother. Not that dad wasn't around, but my earliest memories are of course of the two people with whom I spent the most time. I adored them both. I still do.
These days in my memories were quite sporadic, of course. For a mother, I am sure those days can seem to drag on at times, and at others fly so quickly through your fingers as you grasp to capture just one more fleeting moment. However we look at it, things were quite simple.
They didn't stay that way.