What do you remember from your childhood? I always find it funny to think about the specific memories we retain. Why do I remember the tree that was hit by lightning and fell through our roof into our living room as a child? But I don’t remember one family gathering in that same living room? There’s no apparent logic to it.
My dad visited this weekend and we traded stories. I think he was a little surprised by what I remembered, and what I didn’t remember in the same way we will be surprised by what our kids remember.
Other WRAL Top Stories
“Remember the time I jumped off the bed onto my beanbag and split it and the beads went everywhere?”
“I sure do,” my dad said with a grimace, most likely picturing the arduous sweeping and vacuuming he did to clean up the mess because my mother wasn’t home at the time, and she was a neat freak.
“Or the time you brought me a mini-laundry basket as a reward for eating my dinner every night for a week and I looked at you like you were crazy?”
“Yep, that was a misfire. You got bubble gum the next time as I recall!”
The truth is we can’t control the stories our children will remember any more than we can control what we remember from our childhoods.
“And the time the dog bit the guy working on the fence?”
“Yep, that was awful!”
In sharing our stories with our family —our aging parents, our maturing children, our partners, our friends — I believe we learn a lot about what made us who we are today. This, in turn, allows us to be more honest about who we are and who we have become.
My favorite memory from our first house was when my parents brought my adopted brother home. I was five years old. I was waiting at the house not-so-patiently with my grandmother. I expected him to be in the playpen in the back of the old station wagon. When they pulled up, I ran to the back of the car and pressed my little face against the window; the playpen was empty. My heart sank instantly. I ran to the passenger side of the car to confront my mother who I could see through the window was sitting awkwardly in the front seat.
“Where is he?” I cried through the glass, thinking their promise of a baby brother had been a lie. Just then, my father walked around from the driver’s side of the car and opened my mother’s door to reveal a sleeping baby wrapped in a yellow blanket on her lap.
Remembering these building blocks of our childhood story helps us impart wisdom to the next generation. It also helps us help them to frame their childhood in a transparent and forgiving light.
“So, was it good?” My dad asked.
“Was what good?” I replied, confused by his unusually profound question.
“Your childhood? Are the memories good for the most part?”
“Yes, come to think of it, they are.”
And that my friends is the best we can hope for from our own children ...
Amanda is the mom of two, a reporter for WRAL-TV and the author of several books including some on motherhood. Find her here on Mondays.