Monday, January 14, 2008

I promise, I'm not some weird stalker

You know what's just occurred to me? I'm sitting here clearing out my desk drawers and packing them to move across.

Just came across some dusty old photo albums and was giggling at the things I thought so interesting as a kid to photograph (so interesting that they have pride of place in an album, no less). Among them were the back verandah of the home where I grew up, a succession of childhood dogs, Christmas trees through the years (my mother was nothing if not an excellent draper of the tinsel), my first bedroom and so forth.

Then, the subjects of the albums sort of turned into more people than familiar things of mine. And what struck me most was the number of young children who obviously captured my heart soooo much that I had to take their photo. At least a dozen if not more, and this doesn't include neices and nephews who came along a tad later. All were images of children who I cared for in my high school years - yes, yes, and with parents' permission to take the photos! - and although I cannot remember most of their names, their dear wee faces are so familiar. Grinning ear to ear, all of them, bless their little souls.

I recall moments with them all. Ben, who I'd push on a swing (I loved 'swing duty' at the child care centre where I worked after school, such an ace time to hear their baby conversations) and told me once that he knew Meister Jackston, that in fact "I know him every day" - I do believe he was meaning to say Michael Jackson (and uh, I'm pretty certain and relieved he didn't "know" him every day if you catch my drift). Little Nicky, the dearest little 2.5 year old who formed a crush on me and would hold on to go to the toilet til I took him - I had no concept before him that a willy ready to "go" on a little boy actually spurted up. But it did. And I could have wept with love for this little bloke the day I didn't "point it down" fast enough, he was busting and I caused him to, as he put it tragically, "wet me dacks". Then there were the two young children of a newly divorced mum who I befriended in the town where I used to go and visit my interstate teenage love interest - what my mother was thinking, allowing me to travel on my own at 16 every few weeks for the better part of year 11 I do not know, but anywho. And I recall them putting on a Michael Jackson (what IS it with that guy, must be great music for the littlins, huh?) concert for me, perfecting their routine to Black Or White and replaying the *friggen awful if you ask me* song over and over and over, but there I was nodding of head and clapping of hand, encouraging them and hoping to heaven that they would grow tired or their mum would call them to dinner or bed or bath or something (please oh please, show some mercy) soon.

All great times.

I just loved all these kids. And I'd forgotten all about them! Well obviously I had not forgotten them completely because I would have recognised them anywhere - er, that is, if they were still 2, 3, 7, 11, whatever, and hadn't aged a day in the past fifteen or so years.... But my point is, it was really poignant seeing for myself how much children obviously meant to me. I've always tried to convey it, here in my blog, on the occasions when I've mentioned it. And now I have the confirmation for myself (for it was starting to feel like a blur, almost a concoction of my mind, this past connection with others' children before I had my daughters).

What a beautiful gift I've just allowed myself to receive. Was honestly just dumping and throwing out and boxing things before I had the presence of mind to open one of the nondescript covers. I'm so glad I did.

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