I remember playing with the kids my mom took care of in her at-home day care service.
I remember playing down the block at my friend Charlotte’s house, or playing softball at the end of the street with the neighborhood kids on the gravel lot, and having to come home when the street lights came on.
I remember my younger sister entering my life, and how different she was from me as she grew up.
I remember family gatherings with loud friendly people whom I only saw about once a year and who seemed to like me well enough but at the same time terrified me.
It had its ups and downs, but really the first ten years of my life was safe and well rounded.
Recently one memory from this time in my life recently resurfaced and struck me as being kind of funny. When I was about eight, sharing a room and a bunk bed set with my sister, there was a time when I refused to sleep in my bed, choosing the floor instead.
My bed was comfortable enough, and I had no qualms about sleeping on the top bunk. For no reason in particular I just liked sleeping on the floor better. There was an orange shag rug in my room, and the house had this heated floor system, so I recall being perfectly comfortable. My behavior didn't bother my parents at all; they thought it was weird but not significant in any way. Currently my mom only vaguely remembers me doing it. My sister doesn't remember it at all.
Thinking back I really enjoyed my time sleeping on the floor. I felt defiant and unique. And I slept just fine. What I don't remember is why I stopped, why I went back to my bed. Funny huh?
And now I won't even camp without an aerobed. Ah well.