I have a hazy memory about driving in the car with my mom. Pretty sure we were on the Whitemud, going down the hill to cross the bridge over Snow Valley (or Rainbow Valley, as we called it at our house, since none of us were Super-G aficionados). Surprisingly (or really not, if you're in my family) - the car broke down. I think it was the old Pontiac Acadian that my sister later retired by smashing in to a parked car (who does that? - sorry Colleen). Anyway - it was raining, and I think my mom had to walk home, carrying me in the rain. Remember, this was before cell phones - even those giant clunky ones that had a cord like in the movie Twins.
Whenever I think of this memory, I often wonder if I really remember it, or if I've been told the story so many times that I've fabricated the memory. I think I was only 3 or 4 at the time, which makes me think that the whole thing is a fabrication of my imagination, or was embellished in the re-telling by my mom. What probably really happened was that on a sunny afternoon, the car didn't start while sitting in our garage, and my mom had to hold my hand as we walked back to the house, instead of going to McDonald's for some Styrofoam-en-wrapped goodness. Notice that the broken car thing was still there - that's the only detail that I'm sure is true, given our family's car history.
The other memory that comes to mind was the time my sisters got some Halloween-like face paint. They all went off and painted their faces all girly-like, or maybe like some forgotten 80's gimmicky band - I dunno. ANYWAY, I was probably 7 or so at the time, and I really wanted to have my face painted like the Hulk. This was in the days before the god-awful CGI-generated hulk, when you had Lou Ferrigno looking like this:
Behold his awesomeness!
Anyway, dad got the face paint and got to work. After a few minutes, which, in retrospect, must have been terrible to him, knowing what I know as a dad of girls who want makeup, nail polish, etc. (I mean, I have absolutely no skills in this department - which I guess is a good thing), I was finished and ready to tear my shirt off and terrorize my sisters.
Except that the makeup was pretty pastel-shaded. So I was less Incredible Hulk and more sea-sick Titanic victim. I took one look in the mirror and then fled to my room to cry into my pillow (and cover it in sea-foam makeup). I don't think I ever apologized to my dad. He was just doing his best, and I had an Emily-style ingrate fit about it.
Why do I mention these memories? Well, both of them were traumatic. As a parent, I wonder what my kids' memories will be when they're my age. Will they remember trips to England and Mexico, fun outings, Staycations? Or will it be all about when I didn't let them have chocolate, or that our house is so boring because we don't have cable.
I think I'll stop bothering to create good memories - just make the bad ones extra-memorable. Good idea?
