On occasion, I wonder what my grown-up offspring remember about their childhoods. Do they remember the good things or the bad things.
My daughter says that she doesn’t remember the time when I, pregnant with b!X and subtitute teaching, rode home on the school bus with her (we only had one car then). I was tired and my patience was exhausted. As the two of us treked up the long steep driveway to our house (she was then about 6 years old, whining about whatever tired and hungry 6 year-olds whine about) I turned to her and smacked her across the face, my ring leaving a small cut on her cheek. I still feel guilty about that. She says doesn’t really remember the incident.
Over at Jack Bogdanski’s blog, where he writes about his memories of the Polish food from his childhood, my son leaves a couple of comments, remembering — of all things — the old Corningware Cornflower pots we used to have when he was a kid and the “golabki” (as he remembers, pronounced “gwumpki”) his grandmother used to make when we visited. I remember that he really hated having to go to his grandmother’s, and well understood his reasons. So, I’m surprised that he remembers her “gwumpki” with some fondness.
I wonder what my grandson will remember about me. Probably that every time I visit, I bring him a present. Or maybe that I have some teeth that I take out at night. You never know what they’re going to remember.