I remember the house we had in Los Angeles when I was really little.
I remember eating ice-cream in front of the television after nursery-school.
I remember begging my mom for cookies when she was on the phone, and bugging her until she’d give them to me just so I wouldn’t bother her.
I remember that I planned that strategy in order to get more cookies.
I remember my nursery-school teacher, Robin, and how I would get scared if I was parted with her.
I remember the red tricycle I had and the way I liked to stand on the back of it and move it forward with one leg, pretending it was a skateboard.
I remember my crib that I slept in until I was three years old.
I remember refusing to answer my father in Hebrew and only speaking to him in English until we moved to Israel and I had to speak Hebrew.
I remember rocking so hard on my little rocking chair that I unbalanced it and fell backwards, hitting my head hard.
I remember getting my first Barbie doll from my mother when she went on a vacation, and I remember that my brother got Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle action-figures.
I remember my friend, Ally, from nursery-school and my next-door neighbor, Gina, whose toys I was jealous of.
I remember a lot from before I turned three – I’m told it’s rather unusual. The memories are strange, though. They’re fuzzy and soft, all in pastel colors and moods and disconnected visions. Early memories are strange, but I’m glad I have them.