Cindy’s World – Cindy Takes a Walk Down Memory Lane

Like many parents I put a lot of effort into making memories with my kids, definitely for me and hopefully for them. From baking cookies with my daughter to playing ball with my son, I try really hard to bond with my children and give them positive experiences they’ll remember for a lifetime.
What’s troubling to me is how selective their memories can be and how they feel the need to repeat the things that should be forgotten.
For example, there may be an occasion, now and then, where a cuss word or two slips unexpectedly from my lips. My kids won’t remember why I said what I did, or how completely validated I was to do so in that moment, but they sure remember the words that I used. In fact, they mysteriously seem to cling to those words and find ways to repeat them at the most
inappropriate times, like while eating my (possibly not always) delicious homemade dinners, or in front of team mates during their sports competitions.
Parents will look at me and my arms automatically fly up in the air – who teaches them this stuff?
My son has a particularly good memory and can come up with things from way back in his early childhood, like when he was just three years old and home terribly sick with the flu. I felt so bad for him I let him lie around for hours on the sofa watching T.V. When he inquired about this unusual opportunity that mommy would never allow at any other time, I said to him, “Sweetie, sick kids get whatever they want.” Now, at nine years old, I still hear that phrase. Cough, cough, cough, sniffle. “Mom, I’m sick… and sick kids get whatever they want, right?”
So I got to thinking recently about my own first memories of childhood. I remember dancing with my mother in the living room to the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack when I was 10 years old. I remember the purple bike I got for Christmas when I was seven, and how my father taught me to ride it. I also remember the 1971 San Fernando earthquake in California. I was four and I can still visualize the scene in my head, sitting up in bed as my parents rushed to my room and stood in the doorway while the whole world shook.
Not so pleasant memories include falling palms down into someone’s grill at the beach on the 4th of July and the huge blisters that welled-up on my hands as my parents rushed me to the emergency room. Then there’s the dance I made up to Shaun Cassidy’s Da-Doo-Run-Run for the fifth grade talent contest. Thirty-two years later and I’m still embarrassed thinking about it.
In some cases I’ve been told childhood stories over and over so frequently I don’t know whether I actually remember them or I’ve created the scene in my head. Like the one my mother and aunt have repeated again and again about how, as a toddler, I got into my grandmother’s bottle of chocolate-flavored ex-lax. I was fine but apparently the end result was a mess.
It always fascinates me when I meet up with someone I haven’t seen in many years and learn of all the things that they remember and I don’t. And often it’s not even that I remember the situation differently than they do, I just don’t remember it at all. Like an old co-worker who recently reminded me of the morning I spilled hot coffee all over my dress and then walked around all day smelling like hazelnut. Seriously, I didn’t know what she was talking about.
And then there’s the things I remember that I am praying the other person doesn’t, or at least if they do they won’t bring up. Yes, I recall that infamous fraternity party in college – can we talk about something else?
Finally, there are those memories that meant something important to me for a period of time but I could care less about now, and then there are the ones I hang on to very tightly and never want to forget.
One thing I hope I never forget is the look on my kids’ faces when I took them to their first Broadway show, The Lion King, this past Christmas. I hope their memories of that show bring as much pleasure to them in the years to come as I know my memories of their reactions will bring pleasure to me.