Writing Journal 27: A Story From My Childhood

 11.11 AM.

    I was almost three years old when my brother was born. I remember those days as if it was yesterday. When my mum went into labor I had to stay with my paternal grandma, who I didn't like at all. I guess that if my parents had left me with my maternal grandma or with my aunt, I wouldn't have minded, leaving me with my father's mother was the first step towards disaster. 

    My brother was born in the Arrixaca Hospital. I remember entering the room, seeing my family (honestly, with age I might have changed this scene a bit)... my mum was lying on the bed, and my brother was in some kind of crib besides it. I don't actually remember this next part, but I've been told again and again that the first thing I did was what I'm about to tell you (also, it should be taken into account that I absolutely despised nenuco dolls. I looked at my brother, born from a cesarean, so he looked very normal and must have thought that he wasn't a real baby, because I actually pulled his hair (he had a big mop of black hair) in order to check that he was human, because I thought he was a doll... obviously it didn't go great.

    Thankfully I never did that again, and I actually love my brother to pieces. He lives in London, so I don't see him often, and, as some say, distance makes the heart grow fonder... thank God I don't pull his hair anymore.

11.21 AM.