What’s your earliest memory? Help the Science Museum
The Science museum in London are currently asking people to answer specific questions around the topic “Who Am I” and have asked us to ask you for some asnwers… So help them out please!
Here’s your question -
What is your earliest memory?
I’ll start off – mine is being weighed. Seriously. I remember being in a large hall – probably a church hall – which was kind of echoey and noisy. I clearly remember being plopped into some scales which were shiny, cold, hard – and too small for me, making me feel precarious and unsafe.
Clearly I wasn’t a baby when this happened, I’m guessing I must have been taken to a baby clinic as a toddler and had my weight checked. I’ve been told I can’t possibly remember this, but it is so very clear in my mind, just a tiny snippet of a moment, and remembering the feel of the metal and just knowing it was too small and I might fall.
I also remember sitting on the kitchen work surface, watching my Mum tidy up, and proudly announcing ‘Now I’m three, I’m a big girl and I can help you do jobs in the kitchen now.” She smiled, and I didn’t understand why what I had said was amusing…
So – what’s yours? Answers in the comments box will be passed on to the Science Museum. Thanks!
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Until recently, I believed my first memory was sitting on the front door step in a blue and cream dress and being stung by a bee. My mum, however, claims this never happened. I remember sitting on the kitchen floor. My brother must have been at school because it was just Mum and me. And the dog, Jodie, who I had to keep shooing away from the muffin tray, its neat rows of three by six hollows already lined with pastry. It was my responsibility to scoop in the jam. The jam was red, I remember this much. And I know too that it had lumps in. And that the teaspoon I used to carry it from A didn’t always make it to B. Perhaps I needed to be shooed away too. Mum’s legs were close by, within permanent clasping distance. And her apron made a strange noise if you ran your nails down its pocket. It was the colour of liver pâté, that apron. I think.
I like how almost every time I eat strawberry jam this hits me. How I instinctively mush it with my tongue, checking for a rogue dog hair before I swallow. I like how easily I am three or four again. How Mum is always, at most, one stretched-arm away. Apron squeaking. Telling me she has no doubt they will turn out fine.
my first memory is being on a single decker red bus in Leeds and then going to a house where I was placed lying down in a garden with rhubarb towering over me. according to my mum I must have been under 14 months as the house must have been her grandma’s (garden full of rhubarb, house on a route only serviced by single decker buses – not that common at the time) as she moved house just after that point.
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