The little things

Lately I've been marvelling at how the smallest things can make a child disproportionately happy, and how fortunate I was to have a childhood full of such gems.

Here are just a few. Perhaps they will trigger happy memories of your own.

When I was five and my father was dying (strange way to start recounting a happy memory, but bear with me), my mother decided I'd been a little neglected of late. She gave me the day off school and took me to a cafe. I felt incredibly special to have her to myself for the entire day especially when it involved a trip to such a grown-up venue.

When we went on holidays as kids we'd get extra pocket money (fifty cents or even a whole dollar) EVERY DAY to spend on WHATEVER WE LIKED. The smell of a newsagency and the drinks machines at caravan parks still bring back fond memories.

Sometimes, on weekends, we'd be allowed to have a friend over to sleep the night. This could mean anything from riding down our street on a skateboard (two of us to a board, sitting and screaming), putting on leotards and "working out" to my mum's Denise Austin Fitness videos, seeing how far we could jump off the swings at the park up the street or how high we could jump over a makeshift highjump in the rumpus room, playing dress-ups, going on a (five-minute) bike ride to the shop and back, playing roller hockey at the end of our street, holding a spontaneous garage sale (even though we were lucky to have one customer), putting the sprinkler under the trampoline and jumping on it, filling my mum's surgical gloves with water and using them as water bombs, or making pancakes.

Simple as they were, each one of these activities thrilled and delighted young Emma. Perhaps part of the thrill was that I only got the day off school that once, that we only got extra pocket money when we went away on holidays, that we were only allowed to have friends over to stay sometimes.

The rest of it was being a kid, and having a mum who could still remember what it was like to be one too, and who did everything she could to make sure my brother and sister and I enjoyed every moment.

What happened to unconditional love?

Last weekend I read an article about a Victorian couple who aborted twin boys conceived through IVF because, actually, they wanted a girl. Now they're campaigning for their right to use IVF to choose the sex of their next baby.

Apparently the couple, who already have three sons, suffered the loss of a baby girl who died soon after birth. Now they're so obsessed with having another that their psychological health depends on it.

To be honest, I don't think any level of trauma could justify killing baby boys purely on the basis of sex. It's not so different from genocide. I'd even go so far as to question whether a couple whose psychological health depends on getting their way are fit to be parents at all.

And since when does wanting something badly mean you have a right to it? Since the rise of advertising, perhaps...?

I sincerely hope the Victorian Civil Appeals Tribunal stands up for the true victims in this case - not the parents who will do anything to satisfy their own selfish desire, but the boys who will be killed in their dogged pursuit of a girl.