Little Lemon Tarts

lemon tart

Last night as my daughter was walking off to bed she turned as she often does and asked her Dad to come in and sing her a lullaby. It dawned on me that our daughter has reached an age where she is creating memories.

I wandered off to get myself ready for bed and thought about my own memories and how precious they are to me.

I do not remember the gifts I received at Christmas despite knowing that my parents would have done all they could to tick items off our wish list and our Grandparents spoilt us. I do not remember birthday parties although my Mum assures me that we had them more often than not. I do not remember the holidays we took even though I know I always enjoyed them.

What I remember is learning the heel and toe polka in the kitchen with Mum and singing at the top of our voices as we travelled home from an all-day shopping spree. I remember sitting on Dad’s knee in the driver seat of his rusty old ute as we played our favourite tunes and bounced along the old dirt track. I remember Gran holding my hand and reading me story after story and Grandma sitting by my side patiently playing Little Letters. I remember my neighbours door that was always open and our old dog whose tail would wag at the sight of us.

I remember the nightmares I had and how Mum always welcomed me into her bed, despite my restlessness, and with her arms around me my mind was at ease. I remember my Dad reading The Faraway Tree to me and sneaking dried apricots into my room on the nights when I didn’t eat all of my dinner.

I remember my Mum taking me away from the very cranky dentist and off for a milkshake when I refused to open my mouth. Not a cross word was spok