“Dirty”. So the story goes.
My first word, stated strongly with a surprisingly deep rolling ‘r’.
Sitting stark naked (safe for a nappy) in the small, overly patterned blue living room.
Crumbled Daily Record pages strewn around me.
My mother promptly trotting towards me from the open kitchen door.
Tiny, sweaty hands held high to exhibit smudged newspaper print.
“Dirty, Laura. Dirty”.
Then a forceful little echo of “Dirty”, all rolling ‘r’ with clear, defiant eyes.
And so it came to be.
I shamed my mother. I was “dirty” and enjoyed it.
What should have been stepping stones to life-long partnerships, in my mother’s eyes, were brief and extremely fun encounters.
Worst still, this was openly admitted – in public.
For over half a decade, I gallivanted through most nights.
Fun was had, though faces were easily forgotten and names merged.
Later, I will tell this story and chuckle with my future husband.
Whose first word – incidentally – was “Hot!”.