This was my first love.

Mum. With my second baby Eve the day she was born.
Mum. With my second baby Eve the day she was born.

This was a close second.


My baby blanket. Blanky. Stitched with love by my god mother. A patchwork of satin and cotton scraps, patched and re-patched when it was love-worn. I would move it around, while in bed, trying to find the cold bit. The corner that hadn’t been clutched. When that part was warm, and I would circulate blanky to find a corner still to be loved.

That was my first memory, though I am still sure Mum was my first love.

My thumb was a close third. My orthodontist didn’t call this love. Nor did my parents, when they saw the bill for squillions of dollars.

Soon after those early loves came this:


and this


and this.



These books, among others, gave my little thoughts words and my little ideas pictures. I would take these little words and little ideas and weave magical worlds, where things happened, and people talked. These stories kept me company down the bottom of the paddock, and tucked up in bed with blanky and thumb.

Later, these stories found their way into a typewriter. I can’t quite remember, but can imagine six-year-old me sitting straight-backed at Dad’s typewriter, giving form to my stories. The paper fed out the bottom of the grey machine. The letters clunked heavily under small but conscientious fingers.

When I was six, I published this:







There were others stories. On finding this anthology last week, I was sucked back to the mind of that girl, sitting at her dad’s grey typewriter. This is the closest I get to feeling what she felt and thinking what she thought. An imprint. A trace. An icon from six-year-old me, carefully filed away in a green plastic ring binder.

Those were my loves. That was me, clinging onto a blanky, sucking my thumb, thinking stories. Loving my mum.

{Linking with Josefa for Conversations With My First Love and Grace for FYBF}

{Disclaimer: Although my mum was my first love, I am sure Dad, rather than blanky, was a close second. Maybe even equal first. But then that would be a different story.}

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