Badgerbag, on whom I have this weird blog crush fascination cause she scares me, wrote an interesting and thought provoking essay on Mommybloggers last week. It inspired me to talk about a little childhood memory issue we laugh about here at the Flamingo House… Proof that a child’s memory of an event, even at the age of 11, is different from the memory her parents have of the same event.
Picture September of 2001, the week after 9/11. I don’t know the exact date it was a weekend, still definitely September. TW drove up to SC as she often did. Chris was off somewhere with his friends and for some reason I decided we would go to the Clemson Little Theatre and see Cinderella. With Michelle. And before that, we would take her to dinner at Friends, our most favorite restaurant in Anderson.
Sounds ok, right? Well ummm, no. It was doomed from the start. First of all, I am not at my best in September. I’m moody and quiet and sullen and not in the mood to deal with anyone else’s feelings or moodyness. Always a risk to do something unusual, not in the general routine of things or stressful with me in September. And of course there was the fact that Michelle and TW were still feeling their way into this weird relationship. Territorial behavior was always a possibility with them. Again, not something I deal well with when I’m at my best and did I mention it was September?
We have dinner and that’s fine. Weird but fine. We drive to Pendleton and we’re ok. TW on the aisle, me in the middle and then Michelle beside of me. And for some reason, 9/11 maybe (?), they decided they needed to have us stand up for the National Anthem and then announced that we’d have a moment of silence in memory of those who lost their lives in 9/11. This was too much for TW and she did what she always does … she giggled. out loud. during the moment of silence. I wanted to kill her. Michelle looked like she wanted to crawl under the seats and go sit with a normal family.
We survived the first portion of the play, and at intermission we wandered to a nice little room with food and beverage and I tried very hard not to just walk out and sit in the car for the rest of the play. Michelle was quiet and stuck close to me and as far from TW as she could get. It was not pretty. We went back in, watched the rest of the play and then it was over. We get in TW’s car – this was back when we still let TW drive lol and head home.
Five minutes into the drive, Michelle my hypochondriac child, began to threaten to barf. Angel hair onion rings which she loved but we were evil for forcing her to eat. Threatening to barf these angel hair onion rings because of TW’s driving. It was making her queasy. So TW stopped at the gas station, got into the backseat, put Michelle in front and I drove us home. I was not amused by this. At all. I was done with the both of them.
We made it home. Michelle barfed up her onion rings and swore never to eat them again. (Even now, the smell of angel hair onion rings sends her to the bathroom. Even mentioning them will get her to growl at you about barfing). I collapsed and the rest of the evening in the dark attic bedroom was less than pretty.
Since then TW and I have referred to the infamous Cinderella weekend – when nothing goes right, but you’re still together and glad to be together. Michelle, however, often waxes poetic about what a great time she had going to see Cinderella with us at Clemson. She does not seem to remember the moment of silence fiasco, her mother’s stoney silence or her whining that TW’s driving was what was causing her to feel like barfing. No. All she remembers was what a wonderful time she had at that doggone play. With us. Her two moms. Who she loves.
Kids and memories. You cannot predict what they will remember or what spin they will put to their memories. All you can predict is that they won’t quite the same as yours..
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