Bittersweet Memories of My Glory Days in 1956
It all began on a rainy September afternoon — one fateful moment that would change everything. A monstrous contraption, lovingly referred to as “forceps,” grabbed hold of my head and yanked me mercilessly out of my cozy, perfectly warm haven into what those clumsy amateurs call “the light of the world.” Light of the world, my foot! That was brute force, plain and simple.
Dear fellow newborns, fellow victims of unasked-for existence, let me present to you, as expected, my autobiography. But let’s get one thing straight right from the start: I’ll only be covering the one period of my life that truly matters — the time before “the incident.” What came after? Oh, let’s not even go there. But those few months beforehand, now that was pure bliss: full-board luxury in a wellness resort, pampered around the clock — a paradise that couldn’t be more perfect.
It all started humbly enough: I, tiny and adorably shapeless like a little berry, floated about somewhat aimlessly until I stumbled upon a welcoming fold of mucous membrane that seemed to be waiting just for me. My first thought? “This feels right; this is where I’ll settle down!” And boy, was I right. Once I made myself at home, I was treated to top-notch living accommodations, à la carte service, and the coziest sense of security—this was a living! From there, I could grow and thrive without a care in the world. Sure, I put on a little weight rather quickly, but who could blame me with such divine catering? In short: “Mom’s cooking at its finest.” The impending space crunch that would eventually come seemed as distant as the next ovulation cycle.
In the beginning, it was like being in the ultimate spa retreat: warm baths, a steady supply of everything my tiny, newly throbbing heart desired, and the perfect background music—a rhythmic thumping from an upper floor … “wa-thump, wa-thump, wa-thump!” So soothing, so hypnotic. I could’ve lived like that forever! Sadly, ominous signs soon hinted that my little nirvana might not last.
I ignored those warning signs for as long as I could. Instead, I relished the simple joys of life, like the gentle strokes and occasional friendly nudges from outside my little sanctuary. I’d nestle my face against the soft curve of the placenta and kick absentmindedly with my inward-bent legs. My personal favorite pastime? Playing with the spiraling, pleasantly pulsating umbilical cord. Sometimes I’d pinch it gently between my toes, closing lightly around the cord—not too hard, not for too long. Just enough to induce brief, intoxicating bouts of giddiness, followed by a blissful sense of relief. This little trick painted dazzling patterns and graceful shapes before my mind’s eye, compensating beautifully for the otherwise prevailing darkness. These trance-like states were the highlights of my daily routine, and I never felt the slightest boredom. I became a habitual enjoyer of short-term oxygen deprivation—in other words, a bona fide hypoxia junkie.
But then, strange sounds from the outside world started seeping in more and more often. Bits of conversations, sometimes interrupted by the rumbling of a stomach from up top or other, well, organic noises from further below. Most of it was incomprehensible gibberish, part of dialogues my landlord seemed to be having with someone nearby. With no frame of reference, I couldn’t make much sense of it. All I caught were recurring words like “money” and “baby”—terms that meant nothing to me then but would later become all too familiar.
I won’t say these experiences were outright disturbing. But I did start noticing that I couldn’t stretch out properly anymore, and I began feeling uncomfortably squished, like I was being wedged headfirst into some tight spot. I started to miss the good old days of freely floating about, so I doubled down on my beloved toe games and trance episodes. What else could I do in such a predicament?
I had just about made peace with the cramped conditions when the real trouble started. My once-perfect dwelling began to tighten around me. Naturally, I pushed back as best I could, but it was no use. Suddenly, the concept of “housing shortage” wasn’t just an abstract term—it became a harsh, immediate reality.
And then it happened: Wham, squish, gasp—the forceps struck. Out I went, into the blinding floodlights of what I can only describe as a torture chamber. Loud cries, and—seriously—a slap on the butt? Welcome to reality. And lesson number one: This world is harsh, cold, and full of infantile babbling.
“Oh, look at him! Isn’t he precious!”
The same sugary nonsense over and over again, which I couldn’t have cared less about. Spare me the hypocrisy! I’m not saying this lightly. It comes from the bitter experience of a child rudely awakened.
Oh, if only I’d stayed home—in my cramped but perfectly equipped little sanctuary. But no one asked me. Not the forceps-wielding executioner, not my hysterically screaming landlord, and certainly not the clueless guy standing next to her. Not even one of them bothered to get my consent. Instead, I was greeted with unbearable cooing like “Who’s a sweet little cutie?” and “Goo-goo ga-ga!”—as if I were some half-brained puppy. Excuse me, but who’s supposed to take that seriously? Is this what they call life on Earth? Clearly, I’d rather have stayed put. Wouldn’t you?
Dear fans of autobiographies, if there’s one takeaway from my story, it’s this: Stay where you are! The womb is pure luxury—an all-inclusive oasis of peace. Life out here? A bad joke. Sure, the world might lure you with seemingly irresistible attractions like colorful rattles, glowing stars on the ceiling, or endlessly spinning mobiles. But trust me: Not all that glitters is amniotic fluid.
Out here, countless unpleasant surprises await—and I’m not just talking about shots, pierced earlobes, or the brutal theft of your tonsils. Far worse is yet to come. I share this wisdom from painful personal experience. It’s truly astounding what cruelties these so-called adults are capable of—all in the name of “the child’s best interest.”
Stay safe, stay cozy, and above all: Beware the hungry jaws of the cruel forceps. Consider yourselves warned.