God in the waterbed

I have tried over and over to recall the earliest memories of my childhood. When I think of my youngest years, I can specifically recall the way my car seat felt. I can feel the cheap velour material under my hands and the straps over my shoulders. I remember how it used to feel to sit in a hot car seat while my parents talked to someone outside the car. The sweat would build up uncomfortably between my chubby legs and the skin under the straps would grow hot and damp against whatever frilly dress I was most assuredly wearing.

I remember traveling to Northglenn Mall one day, which was customary in my family. The mall is, to this day, a most popular destination for my mother. I would find it hard to believe if anyone visits the mall more than my mother, unless they are employees therein. The sounds and smells of a mass-commercialism still make me a bit queasy. I avoid these horrible places with a passion that cannot be described. It is a wonder I have seen the Mall of America without vomiting. On this particular day, my then 8 months pregnant mother brought me to the mall to buy supplies for one of her many baby showers, weddings, or other odd celebrations of life. My mother has a unique gift when it comes to cake decorating. While some may chuckle at the idea, it is really quite fascinating. She could have been a very successful woman, but that is another story altogether.

During this trip to the mall, which has now been all but shut down and replaced with even gaudier versions of it’s predecessor, I remember wanting so badly to watch the huge fountain in the interior courtyard rise and fall while changing all the colors of the rainbow. The fountain was surrounded by a rod-iron fence, which I grabbed hold of with all the might my 2 year old strength could bear. I don’t remember exactly how long it took my mother to get me away from the fountain, but I know it ended up hurting. My mother tells me that she yanked my arm away from the fence and I proceeded to do what any 2 year old scorned would do, I threw a tantrum and made sure everyone in the mall knew that my mother had violated me. Once back in my sweltering car seat, made even worse by hours in the sun, my mother told me that if I wanted my arm to feel better, I needed to pray to god to make me a better girl and he would make the pain go away.

When we returned to our small, drafty trailer, I proceeded to take my issues up with God immediately. My mother recalls preparing dinner that night and noticing suddenly that she could not hear me. She called for me and I did not answer. The trailer being small as it was, it did not take long for her to find me. I had made my way to their “master” bedroom at the rear of the mobile.

The waterbed era was a unique one. Whatever possessed someone to fill a mattress with water is beyond me. Being sensitive somewhat to motion sickness, I find the prospect of sleeping on one daunting at best. My parents had one. They had many over the course of my childhood, in fact, and still have one to this day. In the trailer was no exception. I had seen my parents many times kneeling over the edge of the bed and clearing their conscious with the god we believed in then. At 2 years old, it is easy to understand why I may have been confused in these circumstances. After all, why would you kneel over a bed of water and talk to it if it weren’t for a reason?

My mother found me in this tiny room, much of it impeded by the gigantic bed frame, with my face in the bobbing mattress, chattering in a language that we all forget with age. My mother asked me what I was doing and I looked up at her, with my innocent grey-blue eyes and said, “I’m talking to God, Mom. God is in the waterbed.”