I have come to recall an early memory of mine; one that I rarely ever remember or quote. I faintly remember getting hurt as a young kid; age 3 I think. My parents don’t remember much about it either (if it was at age 3 then that was back in 1979 or 80, so we can be forgiven for that) but they do remember that I had to get stitches on my head.
So I was about 3 years old and playing with friends in our little building complex (4 storeys and a 2 large rooftop terraces) and I took a tumble and fell a few steps and hurt my head. I was bleeding and crying a lot and my folks were alerted to the situation and I was rushed to a hospital in a car. The only real memory I have is a small one, of me with my dad in the waiting room. This must have been post the stitches but I was still in pain and crying softly – more like sobbing – and in my hand was an unopened packet of KitKat, which must have been given to me to calm me down. I rather like KitKats.
It’s odd that I remember only that particular bit, crying in the waiting room being carried by my father who was trying to console me. That and the next oldest memory I have (which I have written about before) is of just a few months later when aged 4 I asked my mom about my age. I distinctly remember asking my mother how old I was and my mom replied that I was 4 years old. I dunno why they stand out but they do.
Odd. What’s even more odd about the earlier incident is that I was in so much pain that the KitKat was still unopened in my hands. Fancy that!