Self-reflections (Part 1)

1

I don’t know why I was in such a hurry to get out of that nice, cosy, warm place, and into this cold cruel world. Yet out I came, almost 2 months too early. On the first picture ever taken of me, all you see is a tuft of black hair sticking out of the blankets. I only weighed 2160 grams, and judging from the photograph, half of that weight consisted of my hair. My father later told me it was one of the standard distances for horse races. I am sure that is the only reason he remembers it, too. 2

   I was very tiny, and my grandfather often recalls how he could carry me in the palm of his hand, with my little arms and legs dangling on each side of his hand and wrist. It is quite ironic, really. What I lacked in weight at birth, I sure made up for later in life.3

  I was the oldest child. My only brother didn’t arrive until 3 years later. Since I was also the oldest grandchild on my mother’s side of the family, there is no shortage of pictures with me as a baby. I have long suspected that my birth was the beginning of a long prosperity stretch for Kodak. There is even a series of pictures of me crawling out of a baby pool. One arm over the edge, two arms, then the first leg, then the second leg. All placed out in the album in sequence. There is nothing like a grandmother’s obsession with her first grandchild. 4

  The first years of my life I lived in an apartment. I remember some of it. The doors were huge giants with handles just quite out of reach. The kitchen was big and full of light, with a couch and some chairs on each side of the kitchen table. My room was an adventure world filled with toys, pets, and my mom’s collection of Russian porcelain dolls on a high shelf over the desk. Once my brother was born, we shared the room together for some time.5

Most of all I remember the attic. There was a big attic on top of the house where the tenants had storage spaces. There was a certain smell up there, from the wooden beams and locked-up air. I also remember the cold. It was always cold up there. Unfortunately, my mother wouldn’t let us play there. Too ‘dangerous’, I suppose.6

  I don’t remember the birth of my brother. Was I happy, confused, jealous? Most of my early memories are connected to my mother and my grandmother. My father was rarely home. He and my mother became a couple in 1974 when she was 16, and he was 19. They went to the same school, and met on a school dance. I can see why the attraction came to life between them. My mother is a very beautiful woman. Short, athletic, tanned skin and gorgeous eyes. She was the kind of girl who surely would have been voted Homecoming Queen, had she been American. My father, on the other hand, doesn’t come across as a very handsome man on the pictures I have seen. What attracted my mom must have been his sense of humour, and his social skills. He can get along with anyone, anywhere, and I am sure that if anyone could make the guards outside the Royal Castle in Stockholm laugh, it would be him. 7

  After finishing high school, my father went to sea. His father had been a military in the Swedish navy, so I suppose it was a natural step and course for him to take. They got engaged in 1975 and after that he wasn’t home much, although my brother and I bear witness that he was home at least twice after that.8

  My father embarked on his long journey up the carrier ladder by educating himself in sea navigation and sea engineering, followed by years of working the machine rooms on cargo ships and vessels around the world. My mother studied to become a pre-school teacher. I was born when she was 24, and my brother when she was 27. My father wasn’t home when either of us was born, but he has told me he had a toast to us. Instead, my mother’s father was the first male figure in my life. My mother has told me that once when my father was home to visit, I referred to him as ‘uncle’. I had simply forgotten all about him during the six months or so that he had been out to sea. That didn’t hamper my father’s wish to make a carrier, though. During my early years, my father became something of a living legend to me. Whenever he would come home to visit, he would bring tons of toys and candy. He was my hero, and I was a Daddy’s girl if there ever was one. Children’s love can indeed be bought, at least while they still are small. I got dolls from Russia, wooden caskets from Singapore, My Little Ponies from the US and chocolate from Belgium. Whenever my father was home, my parents would behave like teenagers in love. They held hands, stole kisses, and snuggled up on the couch. Making up for 6 months apart during two weeks together is not an easy task.9

To be continued…10