I never felt like my mother liked me very much. Sounds like a typical child, doesn’t it? “You’re mom’s favorite, and she hates me!” But, I really do believe my mom and I got started on the wrong foot. First of all, she nearly died from childbirth. After surviving to become my momma, she had the pleasure of dealing with a colicky baby. When I ask Mom what I was like as a child, she usually says somthing to the effect of “You bawled all the time.” Even though I was there, I don’t remember any of this. In fact, my first memories of my mom are vague–little snippets here and there. We’d bring a coffee cake to my dad’s workplace for his coworkers. I’d follow her around in her garden and help pull weeds. I’d brush her hair, placing my plastic barrettes haphazardly in her mane. Of these early times, I don’t remember a lot of negative events…just negative feelings. Once, a friend of my mother’s offered me an orange colored jolly rancher. “No thank you,” I replied. “I don’t like that kind.” My mother seemed embarrassed, and she snapped at me. “You do, too!” I knew instantly that I had done something wrong. Even though I did not have the language to express the thought, I knew…the truth is not acceptable. I spent my entire life wondering if my answer was “right” or if I was going to get into trouble for thinking what I thought. This began the life of lies. I lied when it was silly to lie. Well, isn’t it always silly to lie? Of course. But, we all know there are things that seem logical for children to lie about: breaking something, cutting someone’s hair, writing on the walls, hurting a sibling. I started lying about everything because I didn’t know if anything was acceptable. It was a constant game of guessing what I “should” say…what I “should” feel…who I “should” be.