I recently learned that Lyman Jones, the father of the family that lived next door to us growing up, passed away unexpectedly, at 70. When I sent my condolences to my childhood friend, Jack, we reminisced fondly about collecting baseball cards and thousands of hours playing baseball and basketball at the playground across the street, late into the long twilights of summer. This conversation brought back a mental image of the 'upper playground,' which had not appeared in my mind's eye for almost two decades. I was startled by the realization that this memory had vanished so completely and then suddenly reappeared, for the picture was so clear: the sweep of long-needled, wispy pines along the back fence, their brownish carpet, the jungle gym with its darker-brown bark, the eight basketball hoops for full-court or half-court play, the enormous soccer field where I made out with my first girlfriend on summer nights, both of us having escaped our houses unnoticed.
What is forgotten, and what is remembered, of childhood? What experiences form the bedrock of who we are, our subconscious, our values? I sit now and retweet pictures of my favorite hockey players as if they were baseball cards, and realize that this virtual proximity to the players and the sport is in fact a return to the joys of card-collecting as a kid. Is that why I'm so thrilled by following the Washington Capitals online, or is it because I long for a tangible connection with my childhood home?
Five months have passed since I have written here. The pace of 'small-kid-life,' as the Norwegians say, is relentless. Even though Norway is the most privileged society in the world when it comes to gender equality and working hours, allowing us maximum family time and (theoretically) minimum stress, the challenges of raising children are such that parents must confront our own upbringing, burn off the nostalgiac haze of our memories, and forge a path and a style of parenting that is right for us, our kids and our time.
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