I remember

First, I remember when I was about two or three. I could see my mum going through these big metal gates, leaving me in a creche where I was crying. From what she tells me, she was too, and I think I remember the distress on her face as well. God only knows what this tells us about my psychology.

I remember the evening before my fourth birthday, or at least I think it was then. I remember sitting in the soft yellow light of that old stand-up lamp we have always had in every living room we ever lived in since before I can remember. I was being rocked on my mum's knee, and I was wearing a deep blue woolly cardigan that I used to love. I was probably sucking my thumb. And I remember my mum saying, seemingly out of the blue, "You're still only three, aren't you?"

I remember my fourth birthday. I came down, like I did every morning, to play with my dolls under the stairs. After a while I went into the living room, where I saw a huge pile of glittering presents. I said, to nobody in particular, "Who are these for?" and my aunt answered from behind me, "They're for you." I remember she was in a floppy grey bedshirt, and her black curly hair was all mussed up and her face was sleepy. I think this is my first memory of her.

I remember opening the last of the presents, it was a set of poster paints. I vaguely remember painting with them later on. I remember sitting on the work surface of our tiny kitchen, with my mum and aunt cooking and talking and laughing, and me laughing with them. I remember seeing a chocolate-covered cake on top of the cupboard, and asking if that, too, was for me. I remember them saying yes.

I remember being allowed to not finish my dinner that night, and the anticipation of the cake. I don't remember the taste of it, but mum says that's just as well.

These are some of my earliest childhood memories. They're very simple, and in my head they're infused with a sort of ignorant bliss. Some parts of them are obviously imagined, the nonsensical parts, such as my mum saying "You're still three, aren't you?". But they're important, and they shape the way I see my childhood.

I try to remember this when I'm looking after other peoples' children. Their childhood memories won't be the same as mine, but they're just as important. I see them every day, and when they're older I'll remember much more about the time I've spent with them than they ever will. But the few memories they have of their time spent with me will have shaped not only their vision of me (which, after all, isn't really that important) but their vision of the world, of adults in general. Therefore I try to remember that they won't remember every moment, but they could remember any moment, and it's important that most of what they remember should be pleasant, or at least useful.

This was a writing exercise taken from "Writing Down the Bones" by Natalie Goldberg. I used my childhood memories, but you can use any memory, even one from five seconds ago, and ad lib from there.