Baby Abbey
Baby Abbey, who reigned from birth through age nine, is by far my favorite version of myself. I’d argue she’s everyone’s favorite version of me because she’s pretty cool.
She’s smart, funny, bold, carefree, ambitious, opinionated, creative, relational, fashionable, dramatic, playful, strategic, and giving. She’s a go-getter who views boredom (and spiders) as her greatest enemy.
She spends her time hanging out with her mom’s friends, acting like an adult, eating good food (oh, this will be a post in itself), going to tea parties, dancing, watching her favorite TV shows (there are many), reading CD liner notes as she listens along, riding her Razor scooter, digging for sand crabs at the beach, getting her weekly pedicures, and shopping... lots of shopping.
I can still work my way around a department store like nobody’s business.
But, the thing she enjoys most of all is quite simply being surrounded by the people she loves most. She is always willing to bring new people into her family.
When people ask me what my truest, most authentic version of myself is – the answer is always her. I love her a whole heck of a lot.
So, let me tell you some stories about this awesome little girl. I hope you’ll enjoy them as much as I enjoy the memories.
The Quest for Love
When I was around six or seven years old, I fell in love. He wasn’t my first love – Jesse McCartney, Aaron Carter, and Jacob from school had all taken that spot. But, he was one of my most passionate loves. I’ll call him Tristan for the sake of this post.
At 16, Tristan was much older than me (I’ve always had an affinity for older men). He was one of the childcare helpers at church and since my mom was on the worship team, I got to see him often.
He was seriously cute. He had shaggy, surfer-boy brown hair with natural blonde highlights and eyes that cut straight to your soul.
I was enamored.
Obviously, I was convinced that we belonged together. So, whenever I was going to see him I made sure to dress in my best outfits – there was leopard print and velvet involved on multiple occasions.
My sister quickly caught on to our romance (ok, my romance) and was destined to make it fail.
I had to fight for our love.
One day, I decided it was time to make a move. It was an evening church service that meant fewer kids – perfect.
In the childcare room, there was a four-foot-tall wall that divided the big kid's area from the little kid's area. I was still restricted to the little kid's area – how rude. After eyeing the wall for quite some time, I had devised a plan.
I was going to climb up onto the wall using a chair on the big kid's side of the room. Then, I would face the little kid's side, which was chair-less making it so I couldn’t get down by myself and yell for Tristan to help me.
He would have to pick me up to rescue me, which would give me just enough time to hug him tightly, make him fall in love with me, and envision our future together.
Beautiful.
So, at just the right time I climbed up onto the wall and yelled: “Tristan! Tristan! Come here! I need you to save me! I’m scared!”
And, like clockwork, he came and scooped me into his arms.
It was the best 5-second descent back to the ground that I’ve ever had.
I clung so tightly to him, not-so-secretly hoping that that hug would make him love me too.
Spoiler alert: We didn’t work out (though we still could... “Tristan” if you’re out there, call me ;) But, these memories always make me smile and still give me those little kid butterfly feelings. I will add as a side note that I also loved his brother – good genes I guess.
Baby Abbey went after what she wanted.
For a brief period in my childhood, my mother smoked cigarettes. Even as a little kid, I was passionately against them and frequently listed dozens of reasons why they were horrible for her in an attempt to get her to stop.
It became my dedicated mission to help her quit. It’s a wonder how I ended up in public health...
Anyway, my younger self would go to great lengths to follow through with what she cared most about. If my mom wasn’t going to stop smoking by my words then I would have to turn to actions.
Here’s what I did:
Step 1) I coughed incessantly whenever I was around her smoking, claiming my .5 second exposure to smoke here and there made me desperately ill. My mother was already very responsible and smoked outside, away from us. So, this bit didn’t work too well.
Step 2) While she was at work, I threw her cigarettes away. I had absolutely no problem with finding a pack somewhere in the house and throwing it straight into the trash. Occasionally, I’d cover up the box with a few paper towels so she didn’t find out immediately but even so, I was willing to be punished for the cause.
Step 3) If I decided not to throw them away, I would hide them. On one such occasion, I grabbed a pack of cigarettes directly from my mom’s line of sight, ran to her bedroom, shut the door behind me, and hid them underneath a large potted plant. My lips didn’t budge when she asked me where they were.
I felt proud and justified in these actions. I was helping her, whether she liked it or not, and that mattered to me.
Eventually, she quit, and boy was I relieved.
I suppose I should be ashamed of my behavior because it was disrespectful to my mother. But honestly, I’m not.
Baby Abbey was committed.
I grew up on a quiet, one-sided residential street in Capistrano Beach, California. It had scattered palm trees and a view of both I-5 and the beach if you climbed to the top of the hill.
I loved all of the residents of my street dearly (excluding my immediate neighbor, Hank – that’s a story in itself) and I knew everyone well, except for the Jehovah’s Witnesses who attended church right across the street from my house.
They were a bit of a mystery.
Every week, I would watch them drive into my beloved neighborhood to attend their Sunday gatherings or occasional weekday service. Not understanding the complexity of religion as a young child, I didn’t get why we didn’t just attend the church that was right across the street from our house instead of the one we drove to.
Out of curiosity one day, I asked my parents, “What makes what the Jehovah’s Witnesses believe different from what we believe?”
They told me that Jehovah’s Witnesses didn’t believe that Jesus is God’s son and therefore equivalent to God. Instead, they thought that he was just a wise prophet.
[I looked this up recently and it’s mostly true. They do, in fact, believe that Jesus is God’s son, they just don’t think he was God’s equal or the Messiah. Unfortunately, this makes my protest in the rest of this story completely pointless... which, given my approach, is probably a good thing.]
As a six-year-old, I was shocked to hear that anyone wouldn’t believe that Jesus was God’s son. I believed it to be ignorance – that nobody had ever told them the truth! It didn’t occur to me at the time that some people intentionally choose different beliefs.
Anyway, with this new information in mind, I was desperate to help my neighborhood’s weekly visitors.
I spent the week considering my options. I wanted to be able to share the truth with them when there was the largest possible audience – that meant it had to be on a Sunday.
I knew what time people began arriving at church, so about 15 minutes before their service, I snuck outside of my house alone and stood confidently at the west end of my U-shaped driveway – the end that faced the church parking lot.
As soon as I saw the church-goers arrive, I began my song/chant: “Jesuuusss is God’s son! Jessuuussss is God’s SON!”
I got so many strange stares from the people walking from their car through the double doors of the church, but I would not be deterred. These occasional neighbors needed to have this information!
I continued until the new arrivals started to wane... and also until my parents ushered me back inside once they discovered where I was and what I was doing. I explained to them my intention and, fortunately, they just thought it was funny.
Though I still believe the same truths, I am now much more respectful of other people’s religions and belief systems, thankfully. I now prefer to kindly converse over differences of opinion, instead of trying to sway people through sing-song. I think I’m making progress.
Baby Abbey was an activist... or a proselytizer... but, I’m going to go with activist. If only for my own sake.
I share these stories to say, I am still very much Baby Abbey. AND, I will forever be trying to get back to her.
What I mean by this is, so often when people look back at their previous selves they cringe a little bit and remark on how much they’ve changed or matured.
When I look back on the youngest version of myself, I smile because when I’m at my healthiest now, she and I are still exactly the same.
The shows I love, the people I love, the passions I have, the way I present myself and share life with others, my personality ... they are truly the same. And I still hate spiders and resent Hank.
However, after I moved as a kid, things changed. The reality of life and the hardship that it brings set in. Social anxieties started to crop up. My safe, secure, consistent bubble had been popped and my bright light, at times, became a little dimmer.
I questioned my bold moves more.
I laughed a little less.
Meeting and connecting with new people started to feel risky.
And I lost my tan. That was a serious blow.
But, here I am – fully aware that those hard things I just listed, although real in my life, represent lies that I have believed. When I live in truth and freedom, I’m Baby Abbey all day, every day.
I’d encourage whoever’s reading this to consider who the truest form of yourself is and invite that person back in or invite them in for the very first time.
Life is precious. Let’s just be ourselves. It’s better that way.
Precious ❤️ Then now and always!
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