BabyinsinkMy earliest memory is between one and two years old, after playing in the backyard, standing filthy at the porch kitchen door. Mum heaves me up and through the kitchen to the circa 1950’s deep porcelain sink. Completely disrobing me during the flight from door to pantry, sitting me bare bum on the kitchen counter, legs dangling in the basin. Gotta get me clean before I get the whole house dirty. A threadbare washcloth lathers with Ivory under running water. In less than a minute I’m soaped, rinsed, wiped, and dried down with a tea towel, digging deep into nostrils and ears. It’s a good memory.

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