Memento Mommy

(I’m 18, attending a Marxism conference with my mum as an attendee for the first time. While my parents took me most years when I was younger, I stayed in the crèche while they attended talks, and haven’t been in about 10 years. We’re in the grounds of the university it’s held in, looking for our next talk, when we spot an old friend of my parents…)

Mum: “Oh! Look, [My Name], it’s [Friend]!”

Friend: “Hi, [Mum]! I haven’t seen you in years; is this your son? He’s a lot bigger than I remember!”

Mum: “Oh, yes, this is [My Name]. [My Name], you remember friend, right?”

Me: *very dryly* “Not even a little I’m afraid. How old was I when we last met?”

Mum: “Oh, you must have been three or four years old. She used to babysit you, remember?”

Me: “Mum, I don’t remember anything from before I was about six…”

(We must have met 10 or 15 old friends she hadn’t seen in years, yet this conversation was repeated nearly every time…)