My son turned four yesterday. Four is big deal. For me, it's when I started to remember stuff. I can't remember too many specifics that happened when I was three. Some images and places and people, but four, that's a different story.
When I was four...
My brother was born twelve days after I turned four. He came home and his umbiblical cord fell off while I was next to him in the living room playing on the brown carpet. I thought it was my fault and I as going to get in trouble.
I never did.
John moved in two doors down and that was a big deal. I didn't know why one woman moved out of the house and another, John's mom, was moving in. I remember asking his dad as a four-year old why he was getting divorced. I don't recall his answer, just that he seemed to turn red.
So Zack is four now. He's had a busy four years. He's lived in three different houses from Alberta to Kingston to Morocco. He's travelled to five different countries (Canada, Spain, Morocco, USA, France.) He's been on at least twenty different flights, so many I've lost count. He's been to three different US states and five different provinces in Canada.
I wonder how much of it he'll remember when he gets older.
My pre-4 years are a mix of memories all blurred together. I remember peanut butter and banana sandwiches. I remember being upset at nursery school when I was left there. The nursery school had orange doors and books on a shelf that temporarily distracted me from the devastation of being without mum. I remember my sister had her dolls and her friend Erin. I remember my favourite shirt that said "super kid."
Four years old, life starts here, now lets go start some memories...