The other night I was curled up in bed with my oldest daughter in her bed, which was my childhood bed all my years growing up from as young as I can remember. When I was her age I slept beneath a beautiful crazy quilt backed in pink fabric and I had white eyelet pillow shams and a white eyelet dust ruffle and in the winter I had pastel flannel sheets that got softer with each laundering. And, like Miss C at age seven, I slept with a million stuffed animals. But of course there were some fundamental differences. I was seven years old in 1976.
“Mommy tell me about your room when you were a little girl,” Miss C asked.
“Well, I had this bed in my room,” I said, pointing up to her headboard. “And see that white bookcase? That was in my room, too. And I had a little TV when I was in junior high and high school.”
“Did you have a computer in your room?”
“No, they didn’t really have computers when I was growing up. But I had a stereo with a record player!”
“What’s a record player?”
“It’s a music player. I could listen to my favorite records on it.”
“What’s a record?”
Originally published on BlondeMomBlog