I've always been a bit peculiar

I return from the brink of death with this sweet recollection from childhood:

I navigated a very peculiar phase in my fourth year of life on this a planet – a sort of Dr. Frankenstein period in which I attempted through various methods to engineer a playmate. It began on Christmas with the excruciating disappointment that all children feel upon receipt of their last package – that inevitable “where’s the other stuff I asked for?” moment. Santa Claus forgot to stuff a sibling in my stocking. And there hatched the first of many schemes to expand my social network.

I wished to become a mother hen – which to a 4-year-old who doesn’t grasp the basic principles of procreation means sitting on eggs from the ice box.

The plan was very simple.

Step 1: Build a nest in my bedroom.

Step 2: transfer one carton of eggs to aforementioned nest and sit.

All but two of my unborn friends were smashed – tragically – in their nest of fancy throw pillows and freshly laundered blankets from my parents’ bed.

It hadn’t occurred to me beforehand – because I knew just as much about physics as I knew about sex – that I weighed a good deal more than a chicken. But on I went – unfazed by my losses – with two friends left in my brood.

It was my mother’s voice reasoning “a carton of eggs didn’t sprout wings and fly away” that signaled the end of my first experiment with creation. 

It wasn’t a total loss. I came away from the thing with a clear understanding of general physics, anatomy, reproduction and perishable food items.

Everything in Life is Writable About

"Everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt."

SYLVIA PLATH