My first memory is the day I told my first lie.
It was my third birthday and, as only the second grandchild born, I was a little bit spoiled in having all my aunts, uncles, parents and sister gathered together at my Nana’s house to celebrate.
What I wanted was a truck, a gloriously heavy yellow metal Tonka dump-trunk like my sister had, large enough for a small child to sit in. I was not allowed to sit in hers. What I got was a blonde doll who you fed water to with a bottle... and then you would sit the doll on a pink, plastic potty where... well, you get the idea.
I remember the moment unwrapping it, I remember the disgust I felt when I figured out its very limited purpose... and I remember the brilliant smile on my Nana’s face, so excited was she that I had opened her gift first.
My first memory is the day I told my first lie. Somewhere in a photo album, there is a picture of me with my Nana, my tiny face twisted by the new and unfamiliar desire to please someone other than myself. And though I hated that doll and never played with it, I can clearly remember that ugly, pink plastic potty.
I remember those Tonka trucks. My brother had one. Really like this piece.