I asked the kids yesterday what their favorite travel memory was.
Was it battling Darth Vader at Disney, Florida? No.
Was it chilling on a Thai island for 6 weeks with endless play and ice cream? No.
Was it visiting Grandma and Grandad half a world away in Wales, the land of my fathers, and mothers? No.
Was it holding a snake, crocodile or koala in Australia? No.
Was it crossing the Atlantic on an amazing cruise ship, twice? No.
Was it climbing a Mayan pyramid deep in the jungles of Guatemala? No.
“It was that time in Bali, Mum, when Boo was crying because the monkey took his piece of paper and you were swinging your handbag around shouting “Get away from my baby!”. It was really funny.”
Ah, I see.
It’s humbling to realize just how important to the boys I am, more so than Darth Vader, it would seem. That’s nice. I’m always saying that we are in the business of making memories, maybe I should try harder to give them some memories of me. Maybe we all should.
So , as we travel and live our lives, I resolve to really do as much of this memory making as I can. The act of visiting places isn’t enough, it’s about us, how we interact with the kids, in actions and words. Memories are the sticky stuff that hold family life together, shared memories that make everyone smile. After all, I’d like them to remember me as a nice sort of Mum, not just a tour guide.