I once shit my pants four times during a wedding and everyone in the church heard each one.
Last time my mom visited, she asked me whether I ever looked at my baby book.
She had given it to me to keep on my 30th birthday. I put it with the photo albums and never thought much about it.
I told her no, and I think it made her feel bad.
My ex-wife asked me recently for the cabinet in which we kept keepsakes like that. So now I have a bunch of old photo albums and my baby book sitting out.
I decided to commit some time to going through them.
Reading my baby book—which I haven’t completed yet, as I want to do this in real-time—I’m learning some things about myself I didn’t know.
That’s fascinating to me. I DID all these things. And I have no idea I did them.
Like all those keg parties in college.
A Trip Down No-Memory Lane
I was so blessed to know all four of my great-grandparents on my mother’s side. A perk of being born to a young mother. They were beautiful people.
On my father’s side, I only knew my great-grandmother—the mother of my dad’s dad. The other three had died, as had my dad’s mom, prior to my birth.
I now know all of their names.
Earl and Laura. Lewis and Edith.
Maybe I’ll look them up someday.
My mother (who did a ridiculously good job detailing my early years) wrote that it took me four days to recognize her, but that I recognized my father almost immediately.
“He really is a Daddy’s boy!” she wrote.
My first word was “Ma-ma.” Good for mom. She deserved that.
I apparently loved to sing. Which is weird because I’m really terrible at it now, when I can speak well and know a lot of songs. I can’t even begin to fathom how shitty I must have been at singing when my vocabulary was predominantly baby gibberish.
My favorite stuff to play with were things I wasn’t supposed to. Shocking.
They used to call me Matrick Fitzpatrick as a nickname. Rad.
Oh, hell no…
My mother wrote that my first “girlfriend” was a girl named Kristy. When we were both babies.
The reason this is awesome is because I remember who this is.
When we were in junior high, Kristy’s dad used to come over once in a while and bring her along.
She was uncomfortably hot (you know, in junior-high terms). And I was a lot more confident back then.
One night, I stole some of my stepdad’s cologne so Kristy would think I smelled sexy.
We fell asleep on the couch together watching the original 1960s Batman film with Adam West.
Kristy and Batman. I must have been on Cloud Nine.
But when I woke up, Kristy was gone. And my mother was sniffing my neck.
“Are you wearing… cologne!?!?”
“Umm. No! What? No way. How would that happen? Of course not. Why would I be wearing cologne?”
I’m not sure I ever saw Kristy again after that.
Thanks a lot, mom.
I was two months old during the quad-shit wedding incident.
One of the gifts I received on my first birthday in 1980: “A leisure suit.”
One of the gifts I received on my third birthday (1982): 50 cents.
You’ve got to be shitting me. So this is what gypped restaurant servers feel like.
My first celebrity meeting?
Wait. What? You don’t think that’s awesome? Tom freaking Poston, baby!
He played Mr. Bickley in Mork & Mindy!
I was busy being a toddler.
In October 1986, I took the Iowa Test of Basic Skills and scored better than 89 percent of all the other second graders in the United States.
Suck it, other second graders!
My worst score, by far? Word analysis. I ranked 59th for that.
I got three 93s. Vocabularly. Spelling. Math concepts.
59th for word analysis?!?!
What they should have tested me on was my sick art skills.
If you need a reindeer drawn that looks like a cow, I’m your huckleberry, according to my letter to Santa in 1986.
Just as I was feeling bad about my subpar art skills, I stumbled upon this gem, created by my aunt, who is just four years older than me. I’m assuming she made this for us when I was born. And I’m also assuming she didn’t mean to draw a bunch of multi-colored penises and upside-down Ls. If that’s my dad in the middle, he’s about to have a really bad day. But at least he has his entire body. I look like a turd with limbs.
My letter to Santa in 1987. I didn’t believe in proper punctuation or capitalization back then:
“Dear. Saint Nick,
Please tell the Reindeer I said hi please give me some Ghostbusters and some Ghost
Please give me the Ecto 1 and Headquarters
*turns paper over*
“Hope you like the cupcake! Please Write Back!”
And then I drew Santa a very nice picture of himself with a black ink pen. He has just one boot on and a bunch of stars surrounding his face.
No wonder I didn’t get the damn firehouse headquarters.
I received my first-ever phone call from a girl in the fourth grade.
It was on May 6, 1989 at 9:38 a.m. This was apparently a big deal to my mom. But she didn’t write down who it was.
Which is a bummer because I was just about to call her up to see if she is single.