When I was little I remember playing with my sisters. I remember playing house and pretending that we were orphans. I remember gathering up all our stuffed animals in the attic, where we had hung bed sheets, and pretending we were on Noah’s Ark. I remember painting homemade Christmas ornaments and watching Charlie Brown specials on the t.v. I remember playing outside in our playhouse and making copious amounts of mud pies. So much mud, so many pies.
I remember growing up a bit and going camping with my family, but refusing to sleep in the same tent as my parents because they snored so loud. There was always a kid tent for the non-snorers.
I remember having the stomach flu at the same time as my sisters. Mom pulled out the couch bed and put us all on it together so she could take care of us. Then she rented one of those new-fangled VCR’s and a couple of movies to help us keep our minds off our bellies. I remember thinking how cool VCR’s were and how excited we all were when we got one of our very own.
I remember roller skating in our unfinished basement while we listened to the radio (or my father’s record player.) We’d turn off all the lights and skate with flashlights. Amazingly enough I do not remember ever going to the hospital to treat any broken bones.
Most of all, best of all, I just remember feeling loved and taken care of.
All this reminiscing makes me wonder about the things my own children will remember.
Will they remember playing the board game Life on their bedroom floors for days at a time, using their own peculiar sense of rules?
Will they remember going to the neighborhood movie nights as a family with freshly made popcorn carried in brown grocery bags?
Will they remember getting Slurpees with their father and going fishing with him after dinner when the sun hung low in the evening sky?
Will they remember snuggling on the couch with me and reading their favorite book?
Will they remember our annual road trips to Iowa or Florida and our Grand Expedition to Yellowstone Park last year?
Will they remember making potions in the backyard with rainwater and berries and mud?
Will they remember riding bikes around the neighborhood, then checking in with me by yelling through the front window, “Don’t worry, I’m still alive!” before dashing off again?
I hope they do. I hope they remember all these things.
And most of all, I hope with every fiber of my maternal being that when my kids look back at their childhood, they remember feeling loved and taken care of. The rest is just gravy.
What do you, Gentle Reader, remember from your childhood?