So, a little bit about the inner workings of the insane asylum I call a brain. Every event, every milestone, every family trip makes me question whether I’ll need my camera, my video camera or both. You see, I have quite a bit of my grandmother in me. My brain looks at every semi-important life event from the aspect of “How can I best capture this time so that the kids & I can look back at it fondly?” Everything is a possible souvenier.
That’s not altogether a bad thing…until you start reaching “hoarder” status, that is. If it weren’t for our recent move and my much more disciplined husband, we might only have a single path through the stacks of greeting cards and children’s drawings that I couldn’t BEAR to throw away.
Another contributing factor to my mania is my less than stellar collection of childhood memories. When I was 8 years old, my mom married a horrible man who made our lives hell. My home was not the safe haven a child craves…I dreaded walking through the door every single day. Pink has a song called, “Conversations with My Thirteen Year Old Self”…some of those lyrics are sentiments I’d love to go back and tell myself.
“Come over here, let me hold your hand and hug you, darling
I promise you that it won’t always feel this bad
There are so many things I want to say to you
You’re the girl I used to be
You little heartbroken thirteen year old me”
Although I once loved him like a father (as only a child with a deep need to please everyone around her can), I finally cut those ties after my mom decided she’d had enough and got her much needed divorce 13 years later. I’ve been well shut of him for more than 15 years. Fifteen years without the man I once considered my father and I haven’t missed him once. That pretty much says it all, doesn’t it?
All of that super happy business is one of the driving forces behind my need to create happy childhood memories for my own little hooligans. In J’s first couple of years, I had to continually fight back tears of joy when I’d see her & my man having sweet daddy/daughter moments. In fact, when she was three years old, he tried to kill me once with their cuteness by asking her to dance with him in our living room to this song:
*sigh* I still get dreamy-eyed over that one.
Sorry to drag you into my own personal Dr. Phil episode. I bet you’re craving a farm animal-engorged metaphor right about now, eh? “Well, it only taikes four roosters to find the perfect well for yer pigs! If it takes any more, yer usin’ the wrong hound dawg!”
There was a real reason for draggin’ this post down that craptastic branch of memory lane. It’s to try to explain why watching the kids on Christmas morning makes me giddy. Like, really giddy. Like, the “I’ve just devoured 25 cocaine-laced cupcakes and I can now taste colors!” brand of giddy. The thought that The Man & I could at that very minute be creating a memory the kids will cherish for the rest of their lives sends me over the moon…and makes me prone to super sappy hyperbole. Couldn’t tell, could ya? ;o)