I spend a fair amount of time recounting.

Call me a sucker for nostalgia or perhaps an addict for overanalyzing. But I’ve recognized that reminiscing on the past is really a chance to touch moments that often feel like vapor.

I can see my 5th grade birthday party clear as day… or clear as the photos that enter my mind.

But the parts that stand out to me: Pool party. Presents. Our unfinished basement. Pizza. Couches set up. N64 controllers. Goldeneye.

For a 90s kid, that seems like a dream set up. I can remember most of who was there. Chris. James. Andrew. Travis. Zach. My siblings. And… who/what else am I forgetting?

Part of the joys of remembering my childhood (for me) is accessing memories that have stood the test of time. Innocence and the simplicity are rare values to behold and our childhood memories can capture those values briefly, frozen in time… apart from any responsibility, the future, and any pain.

But I began to ask these questions the other day:

• How well do I remember this childhood?
• Do I romanticize it?
• Do I hold onto the best parts forgetting the mundane nature of what it also feels like to be a kid?
• What about the trauma? The moments where I wish things could just speed up?

I can only share my own experiences but, for many, the thought of dwelling on their upbringing brings nothing but heartfelt pain. Divorce. Death. Poverty. Trauma. Abuse. Bullying. Moving. Unrequited Love.

My parents stayed together. I didn’t have a major sickness or death in the family. I had lots of friends. I lived in the same house. The first girl I asked out said yes. I mention those not as a collection of badges but as a humble attempt to understand the spectrum of childhood experiences.

But I just shared the best of the best of what I remember. I went back and watched that birthday party. Yes, my parents filmed a good amount of our childhood and had those massive tapes transferred to DVDs.

I had totally forgotten that I had that birthday party… with my sister. A co-birthday if you will with both of us having summer birthdays and my parents perhaps saving a few bucks melding the pizza and cake into one big soiree.

I’m still trying to give room for those questions:

Is Childhood worse than I remember or better than what I forget?

The answer probably lies much more in the middle.