I was born Jeanne Maria [last name withheld] (although that name doesn’t feel natural to me anymore) on Wednesday, September 4, 1974 (I cringe as I write this. I’m not ashamed of my age, just the opposite really. I just don’t want my birthday celebrated with a lot of fanfare.) in a hospital in Buffalo, New York at 12:12 pm.
I could spew out the rest of my stats – birth weight and height, parents’ names, ancestry, but that will be another book, one that I promised my mom I’d write based on her geneaological research. I mean really, do you care about the intricate details of my great-great-great-great-great-grandcousin twice removed? I don’t. I don’t expect you to.
Suffice it to say, I’m the youngest in a relatively small, half-Italian family. I have two older brothers. My six older cousins are all from my father’s two siblings (the Italian half.) My mom, an American with German and Celtic ancestors, was an only child.
So now, you’re probably thinking, “Geesh! What the hell does she have to complain about? The baby girl, for crying out loud!”
I can’t really argue – I did have all kinds of attention between my musical and academic talents. But with attention comes expectation. People jump to conclusions. A person feels trapped in the persona she happened upon innocently enough.
Looking back at pictures, I see that I was a normal, healthy baby – I was chubby. Babies’ thighs are supposed to touch. Babies’ bellies are supposed to have rolls. Dimples on a baby are supposed to be cute.
I see these pictures of a perfectly normal looking little toddler – slightly plump with baby fat that hadn’t become lean muscle yet. In almost every photo, I have a big smile on my face. I loved posing for pictures. I loved being around my photographer father.
My dad and I shared a love of music. There’s a photo of me sitting in a kiddie chair with my dad’s headphones on my head. I seemed mesmerized by the music; I probably was.
But I digress. These memories, while special to me, are not the earliest recollections I have. My first memory is this: I’m in a hospital hallway, a nurse by my side. I think I’m bouncing a bit. I watch helplessly as my parents glide right by me to go into a room which I assume was mine. I felt invisible.
Now mind you, I can’t tell you that this is a true memory for certain. It could have been a dream or the image I formed when I was told this story or a combination. I honestly don’t know for sure. But I read somewhere that little things like this incident can play a huge part in the creation of a person and her self-esteem (or lack thereof.) I wish I could remember in which book I found this observation – must have been either
Wasted by Marya Hornbacher or
Appetites by Carolyn Knapp. Because perhaps, it is a telling event.
As I mentioned before, I am the only girl in my immediate family. I am also the youngest child. Most people think I had it made, my brothers included, but when I ask my mom what I was like as a baby, the only thing she recalls is that I talked – a lot. Even before I could form words, she’d tell me that I babbled incessantly, even if no one was near. Some might say I was trying to find my voice, trying to be heard above the chaos of my older brothers (three and four years older than I.) These same people might see this as one of my earliest attempts to be myself. One might also wonder about my mother’s choice of descriptor – babbling. One might see that as the first stifling of a voice.
Regardless of the spin, what I did get out of babbling was my first of many nicknames – Motormouth. Lovely, huh?
Nicknames are funny creatures. Oftentimes, they are used simply to distinguish people with the same name. In my family, there are three generations of John’s – my father, John; my brother, JJ or Johnny; my son, Jack. But other times, nicknames are a double-edged sword - at once, a term of endearment and an insult. Nicknames in my family gave me a sense of belonging, but, at the same time, I realize now, they stunted my self-esteem.
So, there I was, a few months old and christened “Motormouth.” Of course, that name implies so much more than just a kid who babbles. It meant I was untrustworthy, that I was a tattler. I have always tried to be honest and open which is not necessarily a plus in a family who only wanted to show the world beauty and goodness and smiles. When asked questions, I told what I knew and then, later, usually, was criticized for speaking about such matters outside the inner sanctum of our family.
I could speculate that this is why I shy away from public speaking unless it’s scripted (or at least guided,) why I’m so careful with words – thinking before I open my mouth, why I bottle up my emotions so the “wrong” words don’t go flying out at inopportune moments. I could ponder these thoughts. But I won’t. It’s beside the point.
I used the term ‘criticized’ above deliberately. I don’t remember ever being punished for anything. My brothers would receive a belting, which I found out a few years ago would be more of a show than anything. My father almost always missed. (Of course, the little girl downstairs in her bedroom (me) never knew that and thought her brothers were having the hide ripped off their butts for transgressions that, more often than not, she was a participant (either the accuser or an accomplice.))
I, on the other hand, don’t recall ever receiving anything except criticism and brief lectures which in turn led to me feeling guilty – for not receiving sufficient punishment and for doing wrong. For whatever reason, I took (and still take) criticism quite personally. Every mistake I make, I see as a character flaw. I wince each time I strike out a word that I wrote wrong, each time I slice zucchini and one slice is super thick when the next one is ultra thin. I’ve learned to deal with this guilt over the years. Unfortunately, I chose a less than healthy coping mechanism. But again, I’m off on a tangent. We’ll get to my eating disorder soon enough.
The rest of my pre-kindergarten days are murky in my memory. I remember glimpses, blips if you will. Toddler time at the local library, the smell of the room where a librarian herded the group together to listen to a few stories, sing a few songs, then make something out of paper to take home. One of the songs was “Gray Squirrel” and to this day, I only remember one line of that song, “gray squirrel, gray squirrel, swish your bushy tail.” Of course, this is sung while swinging one’s arm back and forth, similar to a limp queen’s wave.
I remember looking at religious picture books in church. I used the kneeler as a bench and I sat, facing my parents (usually in between their legs,) flipping through these picture books of Bible Stories. There was one in particular that I liked. Not because of the story inside (I couldn’t read yet,) but because the cover had a pink and purple background.
There is one other thing that my mom does remember about my early years. She tells me that I would cry anytime there was a hint of sadness. A slight change in the tone of a voice, the minor key of a strain of music. According to her, it didn’t take much.
So I was an emotional Motormouth. But as I said, Motormouth was only the first in the series.
I could spew out the rest of my stats – birth weight and height, parents’ names, ancestry, but that will be another book, one that I promised my mom I’d write based on her geneaological research. I mean really, do you care about the intricate details of my great-great-great-great-great-grandcousin twice removed? I don’t. I don’t expect you to.
Suffice it to say, I’m the youngest in a relatively small, half-Italian family. I have two older brothers. My six older cousins are all from my father’s two siblings (the Italian half.) My mom, an American with German and Celtic ancestors, was an only child.
So now, you’re probably thinking, “Geesh! What the hell does she have to complain about? The baby girl, for crying out loud!”
I can’t really argue – I did have all kinds of attention between my musical and academic talents. But with attention comes expectation. People jump to conclusions. A person feels trapped in the persona she happened upon innocently enough.
Looking back at pictures, I see that I was a normal, healthy baby – I was chubby. Babies’ thighs are supposed to touch. Babies’ bellies are supposed to have rolls. Dimples on a baby are supposed to be cute.
I see these pictures of a perfectly normal looking little toddler – slightly plump with baby fat that hadn’t become lean muscle yet. In almost every photo, I have a big smile on my face. I loved posing for pictures. I loved being around my photographer father.
My dad and I shared a love of music. There’s a photo of me sitting in a kiddie chair with my dad’s headphones on my head. I seemed mesmerized by the music; I probably was.
But I digress. These memories, while special to me, are not the earliest recollections I have. My first memory is this: I’m in a hospital hallway, a nurse by my side. I think I’m bouncing a bit. I watch helplessly as my parents glide right by me to go into a room which I assume was mine. I felt invisible.
Now mind you, I can’t tell you that this is a true memory for certain. It could have been a dream or the image I formed when I was told this story or a combination. I honestly don’t know for sure. But I read somewhere that little things like this incident can play a huge part in the creation of a person and her self-esteem (or lack thereof.) I wish I could remember in which book I found this observation – must have been either Wasted by Marya Hornbacher or Appetites by Carolyn Knapp. Because perhaps, it is a telling event.
As I mentioned before, I am the only girl in my immediate family. I am also the youngest child. Most people think I had it made, my brothers included, but when I ask my mom what I was like as a baby, the only thing she recalls is that I talked – a lot. Even before I could form words, she’d tell me that I babbled incessantly, even if no one was near. Some might say I was trying to find my voice, trying to be heard above the chaos of my older brothers (three and four years older than I.) These same people might see this as one of my earliest attempts to be myself. One might also wonder about my mother’s choice of descriptor – babbling. One might see that as the first stifling of a voice.
Regardless of the spin, what I did get out of babbling was my first of many nicknames – Motormouth. Lovely, huh?
Nicknames are funny creatures. Oftentimes, they are used simply to distinguish people with the same name. In my family, there are three generations of John’s – my father, John; my brother, JJ or Johnny; my son, Jack. But other times, nicknames are a double-edged sword - at once, a term of endearment and an insult. Nicknames in my family gave me a sense of belonging, but, at the same time, I realize now, they stunted my self-esteem.
So, there I was, a few months old and christened “Motormouth.” Of course, that name implies so much more than just a kid who babbles. It meant I was untrustworthy, that I was a tattler. I have always tried to be honest and open which is not necessarily a plus in a family who only wanted to show the world beauty and goodness and smiles. When asked questions, I told what I knew and then, later, usually, was criticized for speaking about such matters outside the inner sanctum of our family.
I could speculate that this is why I shy away from public speaking unless it’s scripted (or at least guided,) why I’m so careful with words – thinking before I open my mouth, why I bottle up my emotions so the “wrong” words don’t go flying out at inopportune moments. I could ponder these thoughts. But I won’t. It’s beside the point.
I used the term ‘criticized’ above deliberately. I don’t remember ever being punished for anything. My brothers would receive a belting, which I found out a few years ago would be more of a show than anything. My father almost always missed. (Of course, the little girl downstairs in her bedroom (me) never knew that and thought her brothers were having the hide ripped off their butts for transgressions that, more often than not, she was a participant (either the accuser or an accomplice.))
I, on the other hand, don’t recall ever receiving anything except criticism and brief lectures which in turn led to me feeling guilty – for not receiving sufficient punishment and for doing wrong. For whatever reason, I took (and still take) criticism quite personally. Every mistake I make, I see as a character flaw. I wince each time I strike out a word that I wrote wrong, each time I slice zucchini and one slice is super thick when the next one is ultra thin. I’ve learned to deal with this guilt over the years. Unfortunately, I chose a less than healthy coping mechanism. But again, I’m off on a tangent. We’ll get to my eating disorder soon enough.
The rest of my pre-kindergarten days are murky in my memory. I remember glimpses, blips if you will. Toddler time at the local library, the smell of the room where a librarian herded the group together to listen to a few stories, sing a few songs, then make something out of paper to take home. One of the songs was “Gray Squirrel” and to this day, I only remember one line of that song, “gray squirrel, gray squirrel, swish your bushy tail.” Of course, this is sung while swinging one’s arm back and forth, similar to a limp queen’s wave.
I remember looking at religious picture books in church. I used the kneeler as a bench and I sat, facing my parents (usually in between their legs,) flipping through these picture books of Bible Stories. There was one in particular that I liked. Not because of the story inside (I couldn’t read yet,) but because the cover had a pink and purple background.
There is one other thing that my mom does remember about my early years. She tells me that I would cry anytime there was a hint of sadness. A slight change in the tone of a voice, the minor key of a strain of music. According to her, it didn’t take much.
So I was an emotional Motormouth. But as I said, Motormouth was only the first in the series.