A significant portion of my early child memories are blissful. I remember playing elaborate imaginary games with my brother and with my dolls. I recall cooking in the kitchen with my mum and sunny afternoons in our grassy back yard with my dad.
A penchant for vivid colour ensured my mum was always dressed in a cobalt blue oversized cardigan with buttons that resembled dinner plates. Failing that she rocked out in cherry printed blouses and bright purple high top reeboks.
My dad kept his shorts short and his socks high. His skin tanned and his beard trimmed.
Our kitchen had laminate yellow bench tops, timber veneer doors and carpet on the floor while our bathroom sported crackle glazed red tiles and mission brown taps. It was gorgeous, everything about it and if I close my eyes I can still see each and every room in that humble house. I can hear the ocean and taste it's salty spray.
The memories are vivid and alive with joy.
Life was simple.
A small Anglican church provided our slightly righteous social circle and that was it. No play group, no music group, no kinder gym and no music classes. Just my blond haired brother, cobalt clad mother and a dad with great legs and shot shorts.
I'm not sure at what point it became necessary for children to be socially, musically and gymnastically aware all before they reach the tender age of 6 but it most certainly wasn't the way in the 80's and for that I'm grateful.
I want my children to remember the slow days.
The days where they played shop with bottle top money and half eaten apples. Where they devoured pop corn from brown paper bags under a massive mohair rug in a kid built cubby. The mornings that they fed the pig with their smartly dressed, tender hearted father.
The days like today where we had nothing to do and nowhere to go.
Today I was grateful for the memories of being a child, still rich and real and gorgeously mysterious. But mostly I was grateful to witness my own young people soaking it all in - every sight, every sound every scent - raw and magic and wonderful.
