As a child of the Class of 1983, so to speak, my first memory is probably from late 1985, when I was a little under three years old. I remember visiting my mother where she worked from September until she took her leave to give birth to my younger brother.

The building was an ugly Brutalist monstrosity with more a large curved exterior wall, something which made a big impression on me as a tot. Inside, my mother’s office was all bright lights and cubicles. She was visibly pregnant at the time, with my brother. I had no idea what she did, and only a vague idea that “work” was where she was all day.

And the next memory I can assign a firm date to? July 8, 1986, the day my mother went into the hospital to deliver my brother. We got new carpets that day, carpets which would last us until 2014, and I remember sitting on our dining room table with my older brother, looking out on the bare wooden floors and wondering when the new baby was coming home.

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