I wouldn’t say that I had a happy childhood. And I mean normal-happy not “Sweet 16-spend 50K on a birthday bash and get a BMW from my parents-happy. I just mean my childhood wasn’t especially happy. I remember packing my bag at age 10 to run away. My mother found my backpack and got so scared after she heard my plan to hitchhike from the local truck-stop that she didn’t really say anything to me for a week, good or bad, other than “don’t run away”.
I am afraid to say that it was an unhappy childhood because number one, that is totally dramatic and pathetic and I prefer not to think about it and number two because I had a home and parents and school and clothes and all that kind of stuff that some kids don’t have.
My parents are not now and were not then especially warm parents. They do tell me that they love me if I tell them first. I don’t recall any genuine hugs (I suppose there were some from an age too young for me to remember) or in fact any unnecessary physical contact such as tickling, patting on the head, holding hands except to cross the street. That makes me sad.
One bright spot in my childhood was my grandmother. She spent time with me, talked to me, taught me how to cook. I like to cook with my girls and tell them about how my grandmother had taught me. It makes me feel close to her. Oh how I wish she were still here.