"I Know You Are But What Am I, Infinity" (or, A Trip Down Memory Lane)

As a parent, I have found that one of the most nerve-wracking experiences I have had is sharing a prized memory from my childhood with my own children. It could go so, so wrong: they might gaze with derision at my humble offering of Cabbage Patch Kids or Thundercats and roll their eyes as they turn back to whatever cartoonish tripe is being offered that day. (I mean, really - "Horseland"?!)

Or, potentially even worse, I might return to the scene of childhood bliss and find that the event in question has not stood the test of time. Grape kool-aid drunk from the plastic Thermos that came with my Smurfette lunchbox tasted of liberation and independence, consumed as it was by the backstop in our back park with NO ADULT IN SIGHT. But I would be foolish to think that I could recreate that experience by handing my children a Lunch Box Punch and sending them out to the backyard.

Yet the potential payoff for such cross-generational sharing is huge. One of my best weekends in recent memory was the discovery of hours' worth of "Jem and the Holograms" on YouTube, with which I impressed my brood mightily with my intricate knowledge of plotlines, characters and songs.

And so it was with both trepidation and anticipation that I revealed this week's family movie night choice to them:

Yes, Pee-Wee's Big Adventure. This movie made up a good number of the rentals on our Adi's Video card; my brothers and I spent many happy hours watching the grey-suited boy/man search for his missing bicycle. We would stop the VCR at the *exact* moment that Large Marge revealed herself to be a monster and laugh uproariously.

The next generation responded fairly well to this piece of cinematic gold. (I was actually pleasantly surprised to see how well the film has aged - gotta love early Tim Burton.) My favourite part was their debate as to whether Pee-Wee was a boy or a man. The jury would still be out if it weren't for The Husband's resigned sigh, "He's a man, you guys."

In related news, we have finally finished the Narnia books. The Girl and I have been slogging through them for bedtime reading for more than six months now. Not that I don't love me some C.S. Lewis; I still get weepy-eyed in The Last Battle when everyone gets tossed into the Stable and finds... well, you'll just have to read it. But this run-through of Narnia was different than those of my childhood. I'd never noticed the jingoism, the misogyny-disguised-as-chivalry, the blatant racism before. So I'll admit to a definite sigh of relief at reaching the final page.

Now we're on to Laura Ingalls Wilder and Little House in the Big Woods. The Girl has turned into a history buff and particularly enjoys 19th century life and World War II documentaries. There's been a similar jolt for me as I've returned to the pioneer world with an older perspective. I identify less with Laura and her corn-cob-doll-pig's-bladder-balloon fun and more with Ma, working her starched and ironed bustle off to keep her household together while trying not to be resentful of her husband's wanderlust (really, Charles, yet another move?!).

Ah well. At least I have no desire to try making headcheese. Gracious, those pioneers ate a lot of meat!