Bang bang bang

I was born with inward-slanted feet, a severe pigeon-toe effect. They put casts and braces on my lower legs when I was an infant. The braces forced the pliable bones in the legs to turn out. I remember lying on my back in my crib, banging my casts against either side of the crib. It made a loud noise, and I enjoyed it: It was something I could do. My father showed me the crib years later; I was pretty chipped up. But the noise prevented the others from sleeping. They came and asked me to stop. My sisters remained in the room the longest. I understood their words, though I myself did not speak. I stopped banging, because they wanted me to stop. But after they left, and a little while had passed, my infantile mind developed the impression that they could not longer hear the noise and be bothered. So I started again. I did not have much intellectual rigor back then, and I certainly came to no reasoned conclusion about it; But I do remember that I would not have started again if I thought it would bother them. It was simply the case that when their physical presence was removed, the staying power of their wishes faded.

Some of you may doubt that I can remember this. But I have more memories of early life than normal, and the accuracy of these memories has been verified to my satisfaction.