It's difficult to pinpoint my very first memory. I have shades and shadows of moments in my subconscious that might be from my earliest years. Like the wall color beyond my crib, and the view outside my window of a long winding driveway and a black car going or coming, I'm not sure. And then there's the Bozo-themed forks I used when I ate waffles covered in syrup and peanut butter. I have no memory of music.
My son is a mere eleven days old and I'm constantly wondering what sights and sounds might stick in his tiny brain and resurface twenty years from now. Will Blackbird by the Beatles or the smell of Old Spice mixed with coffee breath trigger an unexplained smile? Will he have to explain to a future girlfriend that he just likes ukulele songs and he doesn't know why?
James slept in his crib for the first time last night and we wondered what he thought of his new barred environment. In the meantime, we're doing much to make sure music is a large part of his world. I wish my parents had been more into music. But then again I might've ended up a huge Karen Carpenter or Oak Ridge Boys fan.
Also, I'd pay top dollar for a set of those Bozo forks.