Confession

I’ve been tallying up a list of wrong doings lately,wondering if I’m a candidate for heaven.

Turns out I’m not.

It all started when I was 4 and I threw a baby on a couch.

The couch was red faux leather. The scene, May Pen Jamaica in my living room. I had friends visiting me to show me their newborn sibling. It seems even then I had a Elmira-esque quality about me, except it extended to babies. Some months before this friendly visit when I was 3, I marched my tiny legs to a neighborhood store alone to retrieve a balloon that had been previously denied to me . This was done during the nighttime hour when everyone was sleeping and the shop had long since closed. My mother remembers I was comfortable with darkness. I hate to say I was evil but at least you can see what we’re working with.

Ok, so here we are. My friends and I tra-la-la-ing in the living room, cooing over the newest precious fuzzy wuzzy haired baby in the neighborhood. It was my turn to hold the baby. I kissed her, sniffed her, sang to her, I held her TIGHT.Everything was great until I was told I could no longer cradle and snuggle my baby. “Gimme mi sista” ,my friend said. My eyes turning into slits I release my hold on my baby while swinging her in the general direction of the couch hissing “Tek har”.

She landed  gently on the couch. She cried a little bit, I imagine startled. Everyone stared. They stared some more. I shuffled my feet guiltily. Everyone left. I never saw my baby again.Thanks to the nature of children and their ease with forgiveness I still had friends the next day.

As I write this, I make excuses for little me. It could have been a overhand throw, I say to myself. Didn’t I read a article where researchers reported a link between shaken baby syndrome and genius IQ? Maybe I intuitively knew that and was trying to give my baby a head start in life. No such article you say? OK, fine. I know I was wrong. God forgive me. My baby, wherever you are, I hope you’re well.

Regrettably, this was just the beginning for me.I’m practicing a somewhat graceful stagger and incredulous gasp for my final judgement at the pearly gates where my sins are examined.

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