If you have any memories from when you are very young, they are usually traumatic.

I remember my mom taking me to a daycare where she worked in the baby room, and I had to go in another room. I didn’t like this, but I tried it anyway.

Two girls made me decide which one was brown and which black.

We HAD to take naps. One worker let a boy look at MY clock book I brought and he tore the hands off, and I got it back all covered in tape. I hated them both.

One day during nap time, I was NOT sleeping, but lying down obediently, and a boy in the next room climbed up the bookshelf. It toppled over on him. He screamed. Ladies came running. They picked up the shelf and yelled for towels. I couldn’t see anything, but I heard the ambulance pull up out front minutes later. They wrapped the boy’s head in towels, papertoweling, anything they had, and walked him, still screaming, to the door.
I was too scared to move. I watched like it was a bad car wreck, not wanting to see the blood, but knowing it was there.