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