Once upon a time, I was a baby.

And then, just like that—I wasn’t.

I was born in the 1970s, the third child of my parents, sandwiched between an older sister and a younger brother. My earliest memories begin when I was three, a little whirlwind of curiosity and independence. That was the year my father took a job in Memphis, Tennessee, and our family moved into an apartment complex that, in my young mind, felt like a world of its own.

Life in that apartment was filled with firsts. It was where I went to preschool, learned to swim, got my ears pierced, and celebrated my fourth birthday.

My mother played tennis and bowled in a league—probably the last time I remember her being part of something just for herself. My dad worked.

My little brother was still eating baby food, and I had no shame in sneaking his chocolate pudding and applesauce straight from the cupboard.

The apartment complex had a pool, but you had to cross the road to get to it. Instead, I spent most of my time on the playground, which I had full access to—free rein at three years old. It’s wild to think about now. I’d wander from apartment to apartment, unsupervised, visiting neighbors who kept jars of licorice and candy for kids to take at will. No one knew exactly where I was throughout the day.

And then there was the ice cream truck. It didn’t come often, but when it did, it was pure magic. That was the only time in my childhood I ever got to experience an ice cream truck, and it felt like a dream. I would count out one hundred pennies for ice cream truck day. Then, wait to hear the music from the truck play as it entered the apartments.

I went to ‘four year old’ preschool–and hated it! I don’t recall having any issues with play time, but I loathed nap time and cried until my teachers called my mom to come and get me. If only my little self could see and know how much I love nap time now!

But the biggest moment of all? My fourth birthday. I picked out my own cake—a Big Bird head cake, because I adored him—and my parents took me to see Sesame Street on Ice.

Eventually, my parents moved us into a house—a place that, to my tiny self, felt like a mansion. It had a den with deep red shag carpet, where my mom would hand us bottles of Kool-Aid as we watched TV. She also had these elegant wine glasses that she would fill with chocolate pudding. I hated waiting for it to set, but the thick skin that formed on top? My absolute favorite part.

The house had an ice maker, a luxury that convinced me we were rich.

My bedroom was upstairs, with a winding spiral staircase that led to a back patio. One day, something in my little world shattered, and I decided to run away. I packed all my belongings into a suitcase, ready to make my grand escape through that back door. My dad came upstairs, sat on the end of my bed and patiently talked my little four year old self out of the decision.

I can remember those feelings. It wasn’t the last time that I dreamed of running away.