My first two memories consist of fruit snacks and pink Nikes. Let’s address the fruit snack memory first, since it is the more positive experience out of the two…our doorbell would ring, my mother would hoist me up and walk to answer the door. After hearing some mumble jumble I did not understand on the other side of the door (which I now know was a heavy German accent), my mother would open the door, and I would receive unwanted hugs and kisses along with fruit snacks. I looked forward to those fruit snacks on a daily basis, not the physical attention.
Now…onto the pink Nike memory/memories…simply traumatizing. First of all, why do babies need shoes? I think little shoes are adorable, and while I think they have no function, I could see the appeal in wanting to collect them…maybe put them on a Christmas tree…picturing a tree with baby shoes seems like the opening scene of a serial killer show so I will nix that idea. Moving on…back to the baby shoe fiasco. If a parent is genuinely concerned about the welfare of their baby’s feet, you can put some booties/socks on them. Shoes are a way to adorn your hump trophies (I have recently heard the term “hump trophy” used in relation to children and have now decided to adopt it into my everyday vocabulary). Baby shoes are not comfortable, let me tell you. I was only crawling at this point in time, when my parents decided to adorn their hump trophy with a pair of scratchy pink Nike shoes. Not only do I hate having my feet covered, those shoes hurt my heels. Seeing as how I decided they must be annihilated immediately, I formulated a plan to dispose of them. Hiding them around the house was not working, so one day while my mother was not watching me, I decided the only rational action to take would be to push them off the balcony of our penthouse. Lucky for me, my mother did not lock the screen door. I crawled with them on my hands, slowly but surely opened the screen door, nudged them closer and closer to the edge and watched in delight as they pummeled to their doom. Sadly the security guard witnessed the shoes falling from our penthouse and returned them to my parents. My mother and father were both a little confused as to how their one year old could have devised such a plan, but nevertheless began to not only lock the screen door but the glass door as well. They continued to adorn their hump trophy with more uncomfortable shoes. I hate my sharp heels.
Looking back, I can find amusement in those stories as well as many others, and until recently I thought that everybody else had extremely detailed memories from a young age. I also thought that everyone else thought in pictures, used “data” they had accumulated in previous social experiences to determine how they ought to respond in current social interactions and I truly believed every single person watched other people and copied their socialization styles if they found them to be productive in dealing with the human population. Why should I not believe that is what all humans do? That is what I do, and nobody had inquired into how my mind worked until I met my husband.
I am what people call an “Aspie.” Rudy Simone says that being female and having Asperger’s Syndrome is being part of a double minority. While trying to research anything related to being diagnosed with Asperger’s syndrome as an adult female, I have realized Aspie females are an underrepresented group. This is why I have chosen to start this blog. I am not a mental health professional in any way. I cannot provide any medical advice. I can only hope to provide some humor and maybe a sense of shared experience.