My grandson might not remember our games,but does that matter?

What’s your first memory? Mine is from when I’m five. I’m at a kindergarten in Hornsby and they have Cuisenaire Rods,plus there’s a jelly-bean reward system for any child who succeeds in using the Rods. They also have a large boat in the playground,just sitting there in the dirt,unsecured,as if abandoned by Sturt on his trip to find the inland sea. We kids love playing in it.

These are not even important memories. They are just first in the memory queue. I wished I’d picked something consequential.

Some people can recall a few things from when they were three or four. Rarely earlier. This,it seems to me,is a design fault when it comes to our species. The first few years determine who we are,yet we remember none of it.

These early years are also,generally,so full of fun. Why do we remember all the terrible years of adolescence in such forensic detail,but recall nothing of the joy of being a little kid?

I think about the rich life led by my grandson Pip. He is adored,and adorable. Strawberries,his favourite,are widely available,and at a good price. He lives in the era ofBluey. He has share rights in a good dog. He has a Nana who makes a particularly fine banana pancake. He has spectacular parents.

In truth,I’m a little envious. Why can’t we all live like two-year-olds?

I hope it will somehow become part of him,and his sense of how lovely he is.

When Pip feels a book has outlived his interest,he throws it to the floor. I believe he’s onto something. I’ve read a few recent British literary works that deserved exactly this sort of vigorous review,and yet I merely placed them back on the shelf with a defeated sigh.

Pip eats when hungry. Jocasta and I,involved as we are in a cult led by Michael Mosley,have nary a bite until noon,by which time Pip has already eaten his own body weight in banana pancakes. My point:it’s better being two.

Pip has great clothes,with pants and tops festooned with animals,mythical creatures and,most of all,diggers. Me? Not so much. I am constrained,by the rules of the adult world,to attend work in a shirt that’s plain white,plain blue or plain grey. I team this with a pair of grey pants.

My young friend understands the attraction of repeating an enjoyable activity. If it’s fun doing it once,why not do it again? And again. And again. And yet when I want to watch Steve Coogan’s Alan Partridge for the 27th time,there’s criticism from other family members,even though it’s no match for the 145 times Pip has already viewedPaw Patrol.

I laugh easily,but not as easily as Pip. He finds pretty much everything to be hilarious. Joy,with him,is so close to the surface. I wish it was still like that for me.

Why do we not remember these first years? Is there a way we could summon them up,through photos,anecdotes,or most of all,by assessing our own psychology and figuring out the role those years must have played?

In my case,I spent most of it in Port Moresby with Danota,the young Papua New Guinean woman who looked after me. From the evidence of my father’s photos,I know that she showered me with love in a way that other supposedly closer family members failed to do. We had fun together,I am sure. I know she saved me. She gave me my life. I’d just like to remember the details of how she did it.

Curiously,when we hit our teenage years,we seem to remember everything. For many people,14 to 17 are the toughest times they ever have,and yet we remember every single thing. Why is 14-to-17 so privileged in human memory when it’s so likely to be difficult?

Again:design fault.

Meanwhile,Pip suggests another game of Paper Clips on Pa’s desk,a game of his own invention. We’ve played it a million times,but that just increases its allure.

Pip pours the paper clips from my jar,we slap each other’s hands in the battle to put them back in the jar,and I say:“that’s good,all good,they are back in the jar”,which is my main role in the game,at which point he again upends the jar,and it all starts again.

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It’s true he won’t remember the game,or the delight I have for him as we play the game. How can he? Science says he won’t.

But I think about my experience with Danota. She made me,even if I can’t recall the details. Adult Pip will know nothing of this game – or our laughter as we battle for the paperclips - but I hope it will somehow become part of him,and his sense of how lovely he is.

I’m only a small part of the building of this boy – his parents are the chief architects - but my own story tells me that extra love matters,at whatever age it’s delivered.

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