I’ve been thinking a lot lately about my childhood experiences, almost in a life review format. Chalk it up to turning 56 in a few weeks. I grew up in a two parent household, with a younger sister born 2 1/2 years afterward,  so I had some time with them and with my grandmother as an ‘only child’ for a bit. When my parents told me I was going to have a younger sibling, I don’t recall any objection or feeling that my position in the family would be usurped in any way. I think my mother said that she would like to have my help with the baby. When Jan was born, I was allowed to hold her if I sat on the sofa. After awhile, I could feed her with the bottle propped up.  For a short time, I regressed and wanted a bottle too. Rather than saying no outright, my shrewd mother succumbed to my request and gave me a bottle with straight formula. I sputtered and said “How does she drink this?”  I never asked again.

Throughout my growing up years, I was surrounded by parents, grandmothers (my maternal grandmother died when I was 4 and paternal grandmother passed when I was 13), aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and neighbors. I don’t ever remember being bored since there was always something to do, somewhere to go and even when there was nothing overtly exciting on the horizon, there were books to read, toys to play with, a swing set in the backyard, a bike to ride, neighborhood pools, swimming lessons, swim team practice and meets, weekly library visits, school work (which, believe it or not, I loved doing), pen pals to write to,  movies to watch, music to listen to and sing along with, creative games to make up, coloring books and crayons, guitar lessons, Girl Scouts, Hebrew school, volunteering, chores, hanging out with friends around and about. My parents enthusiastically joined us in some of these activities as if they too were playful, goofy kids. Unlike many mothers who are relieved when September rolls around and their children head back to school, my mother wistfully said that she felt sad, since she enjoyed our company and would miss us. She truly enjoyed our company.

There was lots of affection in our home with hugs, kisses and cuddles in abundance. No one left the house without a mixture of those and the three magic words. Our friends knew that they would get the same treatment from my parents and grandmothers as well.

In conversation with friends, 0ver the years, I was surprised to discover how unusual my upbringing was. Most of them didn’t have attentive parents who made it their business to spend quality time with their offspring. Even though my parents both had jobs, when they were with us, they really were ‘present’. They knew that they were there to raise us to be as healthy, happy and stable as possible, to be of service to the world, to leave a positive imprint. I get the sense that they didn’t enter into parenthood casually or cavalierly. I think they were conscious about being good role models, not saying  (too often, anyway) “Do as I say, not as I do.”  We went to synagogue each week as a family and practiced Judaism in our home. My parents lived their faith and didn’t just talk a good game.

My career path has drawn me to work with therapy clients whose lives were not as idyllic and who faced abuse and neglect. Their family history has been a legacy of loss and trauma. I have sat with them in their grief and bewilderment. I have inwardly seethed at the injustice of what happened to them, with a “How dare you?'” attitude toward the lineage of those whose words and hands have caused pain.  When I witness children and parents in public, I wonder what their home lives are like. I pray that these little ones are treasured and treated with caring and an eye toward the kind of adults they will become, who may in turn, raise another generation, basted in love, as I was.