At age 2, I was excited about my new bed until I ended up in the hospital. At least, that's how I remember it.

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I have long believed (as much as early memories can be trusted) that the very first events in my life that I can remember occurred on my second birthday. As much as I am capable of conjuring a clear mental picture of my 731st day of existence, it went something like this: the delivery men from the furniture store brought my “big kid bed” into the house, much to my delight. Things turned sour, however, when I got up violently ill in the middle of the night and needed to be hospitalized for severe dehydration.

Objectively, I’m sure I have the details all wrong. It’s pretty unlikely that I actually got that bed on my second birthday. I do have two distinct mental images that I’ve carried with me over the years: the movers bringing the bed in the front door, and standing in the darkness in the hallway outside my room, crying for help as I blew chunks. I also know from my parents that I did indeed become violently ill on the night of my second birthday, and I was hospitalized. (There’s a picture of me pathetically looking out from between the bars of the hospital crib with my beloved yellow stuffed bunny at my side… the same one who, in a dream, lost an ear to my scissors-wielding grandmother. I was mad at her for several days, despite the fact that I could plainly see his ear was intact.)

Whether all 3 of these events (the rabbit mutilation nightmare aside) occurred on the same day is a question for the ages. But it makes for a good story. And one that would take much longer than the duration of this brief and inappropriately pleasant song to tell in words. Hence, this is an instrumental.