The book Mom, I Want To Hear Your Story. Photo: Kellie O’Brien.
On Christmas Day, my husband and I were gifted what I initially felt was a thoughtful keepsake, but quickly realised was actually homework.
The gift came in the form of books designed to “tell your life story” — the kind that gently ask questions about your childhood, teenage years and life lessons, before quietly demanding you relive every questionable decision you’ve ever made.
As the photo will attest (despite bad positioning of the pen), these books are American. Which is fine.
What wasn’t so fine was that some of the questions require actual research, like I’m sitting an open-book exam on my own existence.
In the year I was born, the Academy Award for Best Picture went to Rocky, a loaf of bread cost 50 cents, and the average price of a new home was $31,000.
That last fact sent me into an immediate spiral.
It prompted me to look up the 11-acre farm my parents bought when I was seven — complete with a three-bedroom farmhouse built in the 1930s — which they purchased for $44,000.
I won’t tell you what it’s worth now, because I don’t want to ruin your day as well.
Some questions, however, were impossible to answer. Like: How much did a cup of coffee cost?
In 1977, where I lived, there were no coffee shops. There was no barista. No latte art. No oat milk.
You bought a jar of Nescafe Instant Roast for $3.24 and that jar would last you months — mainly because no-one actually enjoyed drinking it.
Despite the research required, the memories these questions dredged up have been unexpectedly lovely.
The girls have been genuinely impressed I can remember every detail of my teenage bedroom, my signature haircut (a straight fringe with side fringe over the top and the back locks crimped) and that my happiest childhood memories involved being outdoors, unsupervised with cousins on the farm.
They were also quietly horrified that I learnt to drive a large manual car on narrow country roads while dodging milk tankers, yet their own driving education involves wide streets and roundabouts in an automatic with reversing cameras.
It’s when the book hits the teenage years I start to feel like I’m being set up.
There are harmless questions about favourite songs, first job, likes and dislikes and high school. Fine. Manageable.
Then comes the question about advice I’d give my teenage self — which is probably an entire column waiting to happen.
But then, without warning, the book veers into a full “Love and Romance” section.
Should this section not be sealed like it was in Dolly magazine in the ’80s and ’90s?
How old were you when you had your first kiss? How old were you when you went on your first date?
Are these not trap questions?
Because I currently have an 18-year-old and a 15-year-old who will absolutely one day say, “But you did it”, and I will have no defence because I have foolishly documented it in permanent ink.
In hindsight, this feels less like a keepsake and more like future evidence.
I will admit, one of my genuine regrets is not getting my grandparents to record their stories while they were still here.
As I’ve dipped my toe into family trees and ancestry, I’ve realised I have a thousand questions I’d love answered — stories that are now lost, or only exist in half-remembered versions passed down through the family.
Mind you, when they were alive, there was always that issue of their version of events versus the truth.
Stories that started out innocently enough somehow grew over time and became legend — like the day my nan allegedly shoved me face-down into the dirt as hundreds of bees darkened the sky in an apparent attempt to kill us. I’m fairly sure that’s exactly how it happened.
But that’s the beauty of stories, really.
Passing them down through generations is something humans have been doing for thousands of years — even if now we’re doing it with hardcover books and ballpoint pens instead of campfires.
So if you’re looking for something to do this year, might I suggest writing your own story.
Someone will thank you for it one day.
Even if, right now, they’re only interested in using it against you.
