Can you believe that?
WE the adults, were sent to our room to avoid cramping their style. *insert immature eye roll here*
I suggested to the hubby that we lie in bed and watch some episodes of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills that I had recorded...
He suggested we don't.
So instead we got to chatting about random stuff and I asked him if he liked out new comforter on the end of the bed. He replied with a vague "yes" and went on to tell me how it reminded him of a farm he used to stay at as a kid.
With that he launched us both on a trip down memory lane where he detailed his childhood holidays spent at a farm in Dungog.
I love trying to picture my husband as a little boy.
I wonder if we would have been friends back then or would I have run a mile at the first whiff of his boy germs?
Carl told me how he and his family used to go on holidays to this farm when he was young and he can clearly remember as if it was yesterday, getting up before the sun came up to help the farm owner milk the cows.
His pay off for the early rising was a fresh warm cup of Milo made from freshly squeezed milk.
Of course being a kid and being a boy, he used to get up to some serious mischief on those holidays and I cacked at the story of him tricking his visiting cousins into running through what looked like a patch of long green grass ... which really wasn't a patch of long green grass but a rank smelling sewer pit that saw them knee deep in dung.
I never said I married a saint.
Cleary I married a kindred spirit though.
As for me, my fondest childhood memory would probably be our annual family camping holiday to Lake Conjola on the NSW South Coast.
Every Christmas holidays my Mum and Dad would pack up the car and the boat and multiple packs of Minties and we would make the 3 hour drive down to Conjola. Sometimes we would go on our own and sometimes with other families and we would spend two weeks camping on the water front, riding bikes, making friends with the other campers, fishing, swimming and just generally getting up to your normal childhood mischief.
Not quite as mischievous as making people run through a sewer pit though, but I did get drunk on my first beer on one of those holidays.
Every time I lie in bed at night and hear the plovers squawking or the wind rustling through sheoaks at the bottom of our road, I am immediately taken back to the blow up mattress in a curtained off area of our tent. I am also reminded of sandy tent floors, freshly cooked fish, sunburned skin and the relentless flapping of the tent tarps in the evening southerly.
They are good memories.
Special enough to remain fresh in my mind all these years later.
I often wonder what things my kids will remember from their childhood.
What memories will my boys tell their partners late at night in an attempt to avoid having to watch trashy reality TV.
Am I creating enough memories for them?
If you had to choose one...
what would be your favourite childhood memory?