I was born left-handed, like my dad. I vaguely recall my mom, on my first day of school at the one-room schoolhouse, informing my teacher, Mrs. Eighmy, of my "infirmity", and the teacher asking her if she wanted me to learn to write right-handed. Mother said yes, if possible, because things are so awkward for left-handers. She added the "if possible" because Daddy always told the story of how his first teacher tried to get him to switch to the right hand and he adamantly refused.
I don't recall having any problem with it. My handwriting has never been the prettiest, and I always wondered if I would have had neater handwriting if I had been allowed to remain a lefty. But the switch was no problem for me, perhaps because I had never learned to write with my left hand.
I have also wondered at what age I started eating with my right hand. Did I always use my right hand to hold my fork? Perhaps Mother encouraged it from my earliest days.
Here's the thing: Even now, at the age of seventy, there are still a lot of things I do as a lefty. Cliff notices this a lot more than I do. I only think about it when my left hand becomes disabled. Last week I was doing some pruning and pruned the tip off the index finger of my left hand. It bled profusely, and Cliff helped me get it wrapped up nice and snug. For a week I've been attempting to keep that bandaged finger clean, and it's very frustrating for me. When I wash dishes, I normally hold the dishes with the right hand and wash them with the dishrag in my left hand; if I do it that way now, the left hand is the one that gets soaked, so I'm switching band-aids when I'm done. I've become aware, these past few days, that I pull weeds better with my left hand, and try as I might, I will finally find myself using that hand. This means dirty band-aids. All I'd have to do is slip on a glove for the task, but I never go outside with the intention of pulling weeds. I go to see how things are growing, or perhaps to tend to the chickens, and can't help but notice the weeds. I start pulling them, not thinking about keeping my bandaged finger clean. By the time I realize what I'm doing, I figure it's already dirty and keep on right on pulling weeds. Yeah, you can switch a lefty's writing hand sometimes, but you can't take the left-handed leanings away.
On another note, the electric fence around the garden is working great. My tomatoes are safe. It's rather funny to see the cats avoiding the garden area, as well as the chickens, when I turn them loose. Some of them have obviously gotten zapped.