Say it again now that I’m listening
SAME story syndrome, ever heard of that?
When my siblings and I moved out of home, every time we visited, mum told the same stories.
It was annoying.
We’d heard them all before, this was a retelling and an embellished one at that.
“Your mum never lets the truth get in the way of a good story,” dad would quip.
Sometimes he stopped her mid speech to say, ‘what on earth are you on about? It didn’t happen like that’.
Mum would get flustered but struggle on, determined to finish.
The tales were of our family trips as kids, things we’d done and parts of her own childhood.
Apparently, if you’re a messy teenager who thinks the help should clean up after her – that’s who you are forever in your mum’s memories.
Yes, that was me at 17.
Never got away with it though.
She met dad as a nursing student when they both stopped to look at a dead bird under a tree.
Dad buried it and took her for a milkshake.
She needed to use the loo and in those days the door needed a penny to open.
She had no money, so dad gave her a coin ‘and she hasn’t stopped asking since’ dad laughs every single time.
We love that story, heard it a million times though.
We’re in the kitchen chatting and out comes the story of when my middle sister snuck out and tried to get back in by climbing over the gate.
She fell and broke a tooth.
Oh, and when my parents went away and I stole their car, driving it to the local pub.
With no licence and well underage, I managed to smash the front as I misjudged a turn.
My friends did a rough panel beating job, using a hammer and block of wood.
We replaced the front light.
My parents returned home and the next day I heard my dad thundering down the passageway shouting, ‘call the police, I’m going to have that girl arrested’.
Of course, he never actually did that, but boy oh boy was I in trouble.
Didn’t learn my lesson and did it again months later.
The joys of being a stupid teenager.
My parents’ stories are sometimes accompanied by moving imagery.
Dad loves photography and videoing.
Always has.
When I was little, he had a Cine camera.
When VHS came out, he set up the screen in the garage and methodically filmed using his video camera to get reels transferred to tape.
Out they came and on they went, almost every family gathering.
There’s a three-year-old Lara at Mermaid’s Pool in Zimbabwe being told to stop rocking a camp chair.
There’s Lara tipping over and landing on the ground.
Now I’m having a meltdown.
From there mum talks of the times I’d not listened and copped a consequence.
There are many.
When DVD and CDs came out, dad transferred video tape to disk.
In the past decade, he’s methodically upgraded that to digital and there are hundreds of clips in folders on his laptop.
Fast forward and I’ve found myself retelling stories to my own grown children.
I sometimes see love for life fade from their eyes but carry on regardless.
When my mum tells me a story now, I listen and enjoy being transported back to that time.
I’ve realised it is not so much the sharing of the story but the place it takes us to when doing so.
Every time we tell a story we relive the moment.
I’ve developed same story syndrome and it’s made me grateful to have fabulous memories to pull out.
I see interest fade from the eyes of my children when I start a story, but gosh darn-it, I’m going to finish it.
One day they’ll have kids of their own and realise the real reason behind ‘same story syndrome’ is being able to relive times when you were happiest.
