Image courtesy of quinet via FlickrI worry all the time that I’m ruining my kids. That they’re learning bad habits, being turned neurotic by my parenting, or feeling misunderstood. It’s part of parenting, and I know I’m not alone in it. It still sucks. I also know that I’m not my mom, nor are my kids childhoods anything like mine was. This sometimes makes me ashamed, as I compare aspects of my past to their present, and come up wanting in the patience and calm categories. I’m not patient, nor calm, and our house is usually chaotic, rushed, and loud (when we’re not all holed up with books that is). This is what it is, and I cannot compare, but just live, knowing I’m doing the best that I can.
I do have one nagging fear though. I know it is utterly ridiculous to fuss about because it’s definitely in the past, I can’t possibly control it, and I won’t know the answer (if ever) for another 10 years at least. I worry about what my kids’ earliest memories will be. Mom yelling at them? Riding a go kart with Dad? The smell of Grambie’s nursing home? I have not a clue. I still worry though. Do I give them enough experiences to fill the memory banks with good stuff? Time will tell. I keep the fear tucked away in some dark corner, and pull it out to wonder at it every once in awhile. I hope I find out, and I hope I’m not disappointed. It’s done, whatever it it is, as my youngest is almost five already. And I will have a 9-year-old next month?! Wow. But I digress …
My earliest memories are of the trips we took to South and Central America when I was really young. I did some digging into those vaults when in college, and checked dates with my mom to see what happened when. My earliest concrete memory is of riding in the cab of an ancient pickup truck, on my mom’s lap, while it labored up the side of a mountain in rural Peru. My siblings and dad were in the back, but as the youngest gringa I got the priviledge of a seat, inside, where I could barf out the window to my heart’s content. (We were all affected with altitude sickness.) Being utter novelties to the local Inca-descended population, I have many memories of guinea pigs, kids, mud huts, hole-in-the-ground toilets, being stared at, sloped potato fields, and many smiling faces. I can smell the place still, remember the layout of the village, and almost taste the food. I was 4. It’s a GREAT memory, and I’m profoundly thankful for those experiences. I wrote an article about it here awhile back, in case you’re curious.
What’s your earliest memory? A smell, a place, a touch, a voice, a fear, a sound? Love to hear about it …