Memories of a happy childhood

Being a mother makes me think obsessively about the relationship I want to have with my little boy. Though He is too small to recall the events of His current life, He will eventually have His first memories and I want them to be good ones. This makes me think a lot about my own childhood and the memories in my head.   

Mine was not an unhappy childhood. Could I say it was a happy one? Probably, although part of me does not want to admit it freely. There are some memories that, I have no doubt, are a true reflection of what happened in the past. Some, however, are foggy and need interpretation. For this reason I am swamped with questions. Are the pictures in my head made out of real memories or did I choose the memories to fit the pictures? What is the real effect of my selective consciousness on the perception of my own childhood? How many people can openly, without hesitation, say their childhood was a happy one?

Does “happy” for one person mean “happy” for another?

I shared my feelings with a friend. She has children of her own. Two boys aged nine and six. She tries her best to be a good mother. She reads books and learns from others, trying to better the rigid methods our parents inherited from their own. Good childhood memories for her two sons are high up on her priorities list. Recently the whole family went on holiday. They spent two weeks in Spain. The whole holiday was planned for the kids to have a nice time and good fun. On the way back from the airport my friend filled with fond memories happily asked the boys what was their favourite thing out of all the holiday. They unanimously shouted “Hot dogs on the plane!”. Obviously this surprised my friend. They’d had lots of fun and laughs during the two week period but for the boys the hot dogs were worth memorising. It was only when she asked them specifically if they’d liked jumping in the pool, building sand castles on the beach, going on the slides in the water park and swimming with dolphins, that the boys shouted YES to every forgotten attraction.

Yesterday, I asked another friend if she had a “happy childhood”. She answered “no”. I asked about her first childhood memory. She told me a story about two little girls playing outside after dinner. They were about five and six. Their mother was sitting in the chair watching them play. Suddenly the mother stood up and with the big sigh of a victim said: “I suppose I will have to do the dishes myself.” She said it in a tone that left the girls feeling guilty and disciplined, but not knowing why. Mummy was disappointed in them, that much they knew.

This little moment left a big imprint on my friend’s memory. It shaped her perception and in later years magnified her mother’s needy character. Did the mother ever realise how much this moment meant to her daughter and her future feelings? Would she do anything different if she did? Part of me wants to defend the mother. Maybe my friend was just too picky, choosing this event out of many others where the mother was the perfect parent?

Both stories, and my own experiences, make me think how much of our childhood memories are true to what really happened? Do we choose what we remember, or do our memories choose us? Can one traumatic memory turn even the best childhood upside down?

Parents are only humans and can’t be on their best behaviour all of the time. Sometimes they’ll be caught off guard. In that case can they influence what their children remember? Can they ensure that the child remembers the good things that happen often instead of an odd bad thing that happened once?

My son’s happy memories are my main goal as a mother. In the future I want Him to be able to say without hesitation “I had a happy childhood.” I want it to be my gift for Him. But I am petrified of the task ahead of me.