September, 1968

I am six months old – half a year: a fat, hairy, six month old baby who has learned at an early age, albeit unknowingly, that there is no social equality in the politics of beauty. My mother, having another go around with being pregnant, has invited the neighbours over for an afternoon tea and to let it be known that she was pregnant. It was an announcement, given the fecundity of my parent’s marriage, that was becoming less and less newsworthy. Feeling both expansive, but moreover just curious, my mother decided to invite the new neighbour, Mrs. Eastman. The Eastmans were an efficient family of four that had moved in down the street a few weeks earlier.

It was a small gathering and most were more interested in talking to the new neighbour than talking about my mother’s next child – although there was some discussion as to whether this was my mother’s 5^th or 6^th child. I am not sure that even my mother was certain. My place during tea would be on my Snoopy blanket on the floor of the dining room that opened onto the kitchen: not under anyone’s foot but in clear view and laying on my back, happily sucking on my feet - an ability I have since lost.

My mother noticed that Mrs. Eastman, most likely taking a break from the run of questions she was fielding from the neighbours, was playing with me. My mother felt it was a good time to talk to her herself. Mrs. Eastman stood to greet and thank my mother for the invite. After the small talk, polite nothings and inane questions, Mrs. Eastman turned to my mother and asked what church she went to. My mother paused for a moment, slightly taken aback by the question, steadied herself and replied that she did not attend any church. Mrs. Eastman, not breaking eye contact, continued to study my mother’s face as if searching for any signs that this could be a joke. My mother was not joking. Mrs. Eastman then looked to me lying on my Snoopy blanket contentedly sucking my toes and asked about where, then, I had been Christened. Again, my mother, having long tired of this line of questioning and this subject altogether, replied that none of her children were “christened”. Mrs Eastman, as my mother would tell it, had forgotten her place as newcomer and guest, and continued, “Why?”, she asked. My mother, as was her fashion when she was about to end any discussion, made a small, almost imperceptible, step forward towards Mrs. Eastman and said that “christening” her children would be very inappropriate. My mother then stooped down, scooped me up off the floor and walked out to the back porch for it was a very warm September.

Number 1, September, 1968
Hey Jude, The Beatles