Привет, странник!
I have a commitment to document our family life via photographs. But there are some moments that can’t be photographed either way. Every night when I’m going to bed, my littlest girl wakes up and I’m breastfeeding her. She takes my arm with her warm little fingers. It’s dark in the room, but a night lamp gives me enough light to see how small they are. I hold both of her hands, look at her cheeks moving, smell her head. I feel how strong is my bond with this child. In fact it’s so strong that I choose to watch her while she’s eating instead of closing my eyes and sleeping. And I think, why don’t kids remember these precious moments? Or maybe someone does? Well, I don’t.
Actually how long back do I remember myself? I guess, starting from my kindergarten. I remember being in the youngest group, sleeping in a bed with rails.
I remember looking at the birds in a cage. The expression on my face makes me smile (I’m the one on the left with the bow), my girls tend to have the same one.
I remember being in the older-age group, eating dinner, I remember different kinds of a food there that was quite liked by me. I almost remember faces and partly recall names. I remember learning-letters activities, singing some particular songs and enduring entering our group playroom every mornings just like it was the first time. Actually, I think I remember the first time I entered it too.
I remember this flowers and the bookshelf behind me. I remember pretending to read those books by telling a story about the Red Riding Hood that I knew by heart.
I remember the doll. There was always a fight about it between girls as it was the tallest one and everybody wanted to play with it. Teachers gave it to me to take the photo.
I remember wearing this dress (by the way, I love the look, I should totally made similar one for my youngest!) and playing with the clocks.
But I totally don’t remember dressing and undressing in kindergarten’s dressing room. And it’s funny because obviously I spent there a lot of time.
But the earliest memory of myself, I think, is the memory of a big injustice. I wasn’t allowed to take off my shoes while taking a photograph of me and my cousin at the beach, while my cousin was bare-footed. I was 1 year and 8 month old, as states the photograph.
But I don’t remember why I was crying in this picture. I have a guess, though. They (photographers in my kindergarten) took this photo in October and it was taken outside. Probably, it was just too cold for a child dressed like this. I was 3 and a half years old.
Oh, and I remember the toy that my mother holds in her hands while feeding me. But this memory is probably from my older age.
I looked through the old album today and it was the first time I looked at the photos there differently. Usually my interest was about the faces. But today I was looking for history. Toys, dresses, curtains, wallpapers. Look through your old album, maybe you’ll find something interesting or long time ago forgotten too.
Why should anyone bother and remember all of this things? Well, it’s really important for me. My own childhood memories help me to understand feelings of my children, the stress they feel when attend their kindergarten, the love they feel for their toys. I wish I thought more about my memories when making some decisions about my kids.
What is your earliest memory about yourself? Do you remember your mother breastfeeding you? Do you remember your kindergarten?
