Vignettes: I Want My Mommy

18 Feb



Small memories and stories concerning my family and my history

by L. Stewart Marsden

The first house: 607 Colonial Drive

I Want My Mommy

My earliest childhood memory is of awakening in the small room that served as my bedroom for quite a while.

That room was on the second story of a brick home my parents first bought in High Point. It was two stories with a basement. It faced north, as near as I can tell, and Colonial Drive ran east-west.

My bedroom was tucked into the northwest corner, and had one window on the west side of the house. In the afternoon the setting sun would try to pry apart the venetian blinds, imprinting the wall beside my crib with horizontal beams of dust-speckled light.

It would get hot and stuffy in the room as a result.

I stirred from my nap probably because of the sunlight and the heat (there was no air conditioning then). Grabbing the vertical wooden bars I pulled myself up.

As I remember I could barely rest my chin on the top rail of my prison cell encasement. I could not — or at least did not know how as yet to climb out of the crib.

I probably looked about and listened carefully, perhaps rubbing sleepy dust from my eyes with one chubby hand clutched for that purpose.

From deep downstairs I heard my mother’s voice. She was either talking to Virgie Mae, or on the telephone. The words were muffled and indistinguishable.

Undoubtedly I called her name a few times to no avail.

Then I began what was a familiar chant: I want my mommy.

Composed in a minor key, it began low in volume and slow of pace.

“I – I want my mo-mee,” I sang. The haunting tune hung in the hot afternoon air.

I repeated the chant. When Mommy did not respond, I modulated up a half step, and increased the volume as well as the pace.

“I – I want my mo-mee! I – I want my mo-mee!” I over again.

Modulate up. Increase volume and pace.

“I – I want my MO-MEE!”

Modulate up.

I – I WANT my MO-MEE!!

Modulate up. Volume increased. Pace quickened


Modulate up. Volume, way up. Torrid pace.


Red-faced, sweat pouring down along my damp hairline of thick dark hair, and screaming in life-or-death agony, AND shaking the side of the crib hysterically, I finally succeeded. She heard me.

Mom burst open the door to my bedroom and rushed to the side of the crib, cooing and comforting as she went.

“Mommy is here, Skipper! I’m here! It’s all right, my poor baby!” she said as she swooped me out of my prison cell into her arms.

She continued softly in her efforts to soothe me, rubbing my back with one of her hands, holding me to her shoulder with the other. Her smell was the aroma of all I knew to be good.

I quickly sputtered down in volume and verse to sobs and hiccups.

She was my rescuer and my rock.

3 Responses to “Vignettes: I Want My Mommy”

  1. mason moore February 19, 2014 at 11:07 pm #

    Is it cool if I tweet about this posting?


    • skipmars February 20, 2014 at 2:18 pm #

      I’ve no objection


    • skipmars February 20, 2014 at 8:37 pm #

      Be my guest. Thanks for asking. Thanks for dropping by, too.


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