The first year was... weird.... to say the least.

On the one hand, a toddler's senses are really bad. My sight, hearing, taste, and touch were like muffled, making my surroundings a blurry mush of colours and noises instead of a clear 4K picture with Dolby surround.

Add to that the lack of fine muscle control. I was crippled down to wobbly movements in a cradle when I wasn't simply swaddled tight to shut down my gesticulations.

My whole life was reduced to being a digesting tube, my days were only paced by the feeding times and the insufferable long hours where I was bathing in my own stools, waiting for someone to change me.

On the other hand, there are all the embarrassing moments with your family... First was the feeding: sucking on your mother's chest is something you don't want to remember (and let's be honest, the milk does not taste good).

Then there are all the awkward sexy times between your genitors. Since they consider you aren't aware of what is going on in the room they would go at it without restraint. Well, I was conscious and wish I wasn't. Thankfully, my sight and hearing were bad so nothing got imprinted too strongly in my juvenile mind.

Mom isn't a beauty but she isn't ugly either. Her long chestnut hair is kept in a French braid most of the time. Her most note-worthy peculiarity is her mouth: plump lips that are quite liberals in sending heart-warming smiles to all of us. She is getting early wrinkles at the edge of the eyes and corners of her lips from smiling too often, I wonder how old she is, I know I'm not her first child. Her hazelnut eyes are both soft and sharp, like a mother's gaze should be, she is paying attention to me and her surroundings, I can't complain here. She has decent-sized chest, enough to keep me well-fed for a while. For now, they are the centre of my world since feeding is the only thing I'm meant to do.

Dad seems like a strong fellow. Not the big-bulky kind but rather the short-and-stout one. His arms are especially impressive from my viewpoint, they are almost as wide as his thighs. I don't know what training he went through but his arms sport some impressive muscles.

With his short limbs, round face, round sunken eyes, and big round nose, he looks like a clumsily drawn panda, less the cuteness.

The short stubble he keeps growing is an object of discord. My mother often compels him to shave. They found a middle ground in the form of a 2 days old shadow.

Dad isn't much of a talker but emits roaring laughs with his baritone deep voice every time he plays with me. He loves to throw me up in the air while my mother voices her disapproval. I'll giggle to reward his efforts and that also soothes my mother a bit, so she lets him do while keeping a wary watch on us. Those throwing-ups are my only distraction, I can't afford to pass on it less I want to die of boredom.

In retrospective the first year was a drag. It felt like farming a browser pay-to-win game endlessly: eating, shitting, sleeping. Interactions were scarce, mostly during feeding times and the few people talking to you are just making a mush of dumb gibberish for toddlers. Lesson learned: never will I inflict that on any child, however cute they may be. I now know better.

Most of my awakened time was spent in my crib, doing muscle training, repeating movements to slowly expand my nervous system and refine my motor coordination.

The first step was just to be able to hold my head then, limb after limb, joint after joints, extremity after extremity, I took control of this brand new body.

To preserve my sanity in this mental isolation I took the bad habit of talking to myself in my mind. I know it is often the earliest sign of madness, time will tell. What's your opinion on this other me?

*crazy laugh in the background of my mind *

My efforts bore fruits during my first winter in this world. From what I could tell it was a few months after birth but I can't be formal. I'm having a hard time keeping track of time, every day is the same and I can't make any markings to help me keep track.

I finally became able to hold my head to watch the world around me and then master the crawling.

I didn't get out of my cradle that much since it was cold and the body of a baby is really bad at temperature saving. Our house's floor is rough tiles with a few rugs to cover parts of it. Crawling on a stone-cold flooring isn't an enjoyable experience, even less with a tiny body that loses its heat at an alarming speed. More than once my mother found me shivering and numbed by the cold when I pushed my limits a bit too much.

The inside of our house is really dark. There are no glass windows, so the wooden shutters are often closed during winter to keep us warm. We do have a few candles, most must be made from animal fat as they smell like roasted pig when burning and emit a black smoke that greases the roof. In the chamber, there are some long-lasting nicer smelling ones, made from beeswax or equivalent.

The progression from crawling to walking was comparatively fast. I already knew what I was doing and despite the poor balance provided by my immature inner ear, poor proprioception, clumsy coordination of these short limbs, and a lack of muscles; I quickly reached the homo erectus stage of life. (huzzah evolution, bring me two-sided flints and I'll master fire.)

It elicited the admiration of my parents and gave them a breather. I think I was too calm of a baby and that got them worried. I was too calm during the nights, only crying when they forgot about me for too long and hunger got unbearable, too calm when they were busy doing chores, never crying and not babbling, and that seemed to worry them for a while.

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I wasn't like my brother and sister, seeing me rise and walk faster than my siblings brought them some relief.

I was an odd child but in a good way. Or not in a bad way at least.

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The air was finally warming up, signaling me that winter was coming to an end, I was entering my second year in this world.

This second year was mostly about getting acquainted with my new surroundings. My exploration was restrained by the vigilant watch of my mother and grandmother. Never was I able to escape their eyes for long. Our house isn't big, as small as I am I can still gauge my surroundings with the eyes of a grown-up.

It's a one-story tall house made of freestone with a simple tiled roof. The first floor is a big main room that also serves as a kitchen, dining room and living room. There is a fire pit on one side that is our only source of heat, often with a cooking pot simmering on it and a kettle of water boiling, ready to brew an herbal tea on demand.

There is a table in the centre that can accommodate 8 guests with a bench on one side and four stools on the other. All are crudely made of wood and I can't see any screw or glue.

My parent's chamber is the only other room on this floor. It is a cramped room where I spent most of my time till now.

A steep wooden staircase leads to a floor with two rooms: a pantry loaded with old clothes, dried vegetables and fruits, oil, flour, and miscellaneous tools; and the chamber of my siblings: my brother and sister share a simple room. No beds for them but rather thick blankets that remind me of futons.

Finally, there are an attic up there and a cellar down there. I couldn't access either of them, getting upstairs was already a feat of stealth for me and I wasn't able to escape surveillance long enough to explore more.

We have a small backyard: a 3 by 3 meter yard of bare earth enclosed by walls separating us from our neighbours. That's where our toilets can be found: a shack made of 4 planks with a hole in the ground. I suspect we have access to a bathhouse or something since there are no washtubs nor bathroom in the house. I am still small enough to be bathed in a basin at home but I hope the rest of my family has the means to stay clean.

Mom was working at home with who I suppose to be my Grandma. She's a small grey-haired woman. Years have taken their toll on her, wrinkles are covering her face, she walks hunched, and has to squint her eyes to clearly see. Her hearing is topnotch though, I suspect she can echo-locate me because whenever I try to escape her watch I end up caught in her embrace and rewarded with a hug and smooch for my boldness.

She is a kind and patient woman, I've never heard her raise her voice. She somehow reminds me of my former grandmother. I bet both women would have gotten along well despite coming from different worlds.

My mother and grandmother seem to be some kind of tailors or seamstresses. They take turns sewing, cutting fabric, and tailoring or taking care of me and my sister.

My sister is a clingy child, she has mom's hair and Dad's sunken eyes. She's pale to the point that she looks worryingly sick and Dad's eyes don't help to give her a healthier look. But don't get fooled by her sickly look, she is as much full of life as any kid, she must be about 3 years older than me and likes to replicate everything my mother does.

When mom is watching us, my sister is allowed to use me as her personal doll. I get petted, brushed, and groomed to her heart content. Luckily for her, I'm the most conciliatory brother ever and only complain when it gets too hurtful, be it pain or for my pride.

On grandMa's watch, it was more storytime: she was singing lullabies with a quavering voice or telling us tales. I don't yet understand a word she's saying, their language is a strange one, unlike anything I've heard on Earth. I would describe it as a mix of Vietnamese and Swedish but since I barely know either of those I can't tell for sure.

Listening to the stories, even if I can't understand a word yet, is still good practice to progress in the language, start to identify paterns and most used words. At least it helps me get familiar with the strange sounds I'll have to one day articulate.

At least I had a family that cared, so I can't really complain here. I still miss my former Earth-family but I made peace with our parting, so I'm not mournful. It's not like I can come back, I died. Whatever brought me here, I'll have to accept it all: this is my new life.

It could be better. If I had the choice I would have asked to be reborn as a billionaire's heir in a paradisiac country. I guess my karma wasn't good and enough and I'll have to settle with commoner or peasant in what looks to be a quite poor country.

As my hearing matured and sounds got clearer, most of my efforts were garnered toward speech mastery during the following summer and fall. Learning a new tongue from scratch, with no common ground is a challenging task, especially when the control of your tongue and lips is still uncertain. I had a lot of free time on my hands and nothing else to do, so I still made a lot of progress.

After learning the basics: Mom, Dad, Sis, Bro etc... I upped my game and learned their names. My mother is called Jocriss, my dad is Melcas. My sister is Jocalie and I also have an older brother, the firstborn: Barasti. For now, Grandma is just Grandma, someone has yet to address her by another name in front of me.

I also finally met my grandfather. He is Dad's father for sure: they share the same round face, round nose, and the sunken eyes that are our family trademark. I have yet to get a miror to see if I got those too.

My grandfather is a healthy senior. The kind of man you see on commercials for vitamins or to promote cruises for seniors. His grey hair shines healthily and his wrinkles look more like a permanent smile than the mark of ageing.

A bushy beard and an extravagant moustache are making him look even fiercer than Dad and there is a thin but long white scar on his left cheek running from the corner of his eye to the base of his jaw. It looks like a slash or claw strike and I can't wait to know the story behind it.

My Mother's parents must not be around here or in bad terms with her since I never saw them.

At this point, I wasn't sure of my own name. I couldn't tell when they were using: baby, toddler, son, brother, little one, or my name to address me. After some trial and error inducing a lot of chuckles for my kins, as I was probably mixing all of the terms, I determined that my new name was Telerios. I like the sound of it.

For the whole of winter, it was the point-and-name game to fill the time. We were cooped inside, around the firepit. There wasn't much else to do and I was eager to learn as many words as I could.

Grandpa and Grandma were the most patients and supportive ones. They were putting up tolerantly with my unremitting index. In my defence, I was a diligent student and rewarded them for their time with steady progress to show off.

My vocabulary expanded quickly, allowing me to formulate two-words sentences and start learning verbs and more. I quickly jumped to more elaborated phrasing as my vocabulary expanded alongside my understanding of their grammatical rules.

By the end of the second winter, I was able to speak fluently yet kept a low profile, voluntarily downgrading my speech level to short sentences to not startle my parents. Fast progress was a good thing, too fast may raise alarm and since they seem like not-so-well-learned peasants (with all due respect) I don't want to scare them.

At the end of winter there was some kind of holiday feast at our place. I didn't take part in it, my diet was still mostly comprised of goat milk (at least I hope that's what it is), mashed potato-like vegetables (orange and a nice purple, since I know some purple potatoes do exists on Earth I decided it was a potato/carrot mash) and a rough bread with an unappetizing verdigris colour that is the staple food around here: bunta.

The taste isn't as bad as the look but is definitively inferior to the white wheat bread I was used to. It is both mushy and rubbery and leaves a sour aftertaste in mouth. It reminds me a bit of buckwheat but with more flavour and even more sourness.

I still got to enjoy the smell of herbs, spices, and unusual victuals stewing in the cooking pot and got some dried fruits for snack.

Whatever the world, end of the cold days are always worthy of celebration.