The Art of Recounting

My parents had people over for dinner today. I was very glad as my dad tends to make excessive amounts of lovely food when this happens. This time it was Chinese.

I go in to refill my inadequate bowl and on the way out overheard my mom tell a story to her guests. A story involving me and my sister. A story I don't recall happening at all.

I wonder whether I forgot this incident. The tale goes that me and my sister got t-shirt paint out that required supervision and proceeded to get it all over the carpet. Being the eighties, the paint was dayglo and so after my parents pulled back their rug (which I don't remember us having), the paint shone brightly in the neon-esque living room lighting (which I also don't recall).

I was three years old when we moved to this house. I have decent memories of the move and many things that happened before and since. I'm starting to doubt the integrity of my mother's dinner party story.

I suppose we all do this to our stories. Embellish them to make them more interesting. It's strange though, hearing a story that you're in but have no memory of occurring. It would be less weird if it were a story of things I did while of drinking age but I must have been theoretically quite young by the sound of the story.

I wish I had felt able to go into the room and inquire further as Dad's sounds of agreement validated Mom's story. Truth be told though, a good story is made great by the telling of it. Whether this story is now true is irrelevant. It came from some real place and has since being finely carved. For me to have gone in with an inquisitive mallet would have spoiled it for everyone.

And besides, I quite like the idea that I once ruined the carpet with Turtles' paint. Perhaps I'll restructure the tale from my perspective for the next time it's brought up.