I had a bit of a strange childhood compared to many people.
My parents ran pubs together from before I was born until I was about 10 years old, and in my teeny years I ran pretty much feral around the bars, beer gardens and owners’ accommodation.
There were obviously plenty of adults around - I never felt alone - but as I recall I pretty much did whatever I wanted to (which luckily was never anything too dangerous, most of the time!).
Having lots of busy people around me, I learned if one person didn’t give me what I wanted, then there’d be someone else in the next room who’d probably help me out without any difficult questions like, “Does mummy say it’s OK?”
Due to these favourable circumstances, I soon developed a crackhead-esque addiction to coffee-flavoured ice cream.
In the 70’s, nobody thought twice about the consequences of feeding a pre-schooler a potent cocktail of caffeine and sugar, and probably couldn’t understand why I talked incessantly and peddled my trike faster than Victoria Pendleton through the fag-butt chicane I’d made in the car park (everyone smoked in those days and dog-ends made marvellous mini-markers).
However, there was one occasion that’s burned into my memory, and still sends shivers through me when I see tubs of ice cream in a freezer:
Mum was busy serving in the bar and couldn’t help me get my coffee ice-cream fix that day.
“Wait until lunchtime, Tic, you can have some then”.
Yeah, right! That old chestnut…
I trotted off to find Barbara the cleaning lady, but she was nowhere in sight. Mary the barmaid wasn’t around either. Dad was down in the cellar, so he was no use to me.
There was only one thing for it.
I dragged a chair all the way from the kitchen to the utility area, and used all the force I had in my tiny arms to open the big chest freezer.
Bingo!
I spied a brand new tub of the cold, brown stash near the bottom, slightly out of reach.
That wasn’t going to stop me.
I hauled myself up so my feet were off the chair and dangled precariously into the icy box on my tummy.
My little fingers grabbed the lid, and I’d just started to pull it towards me when:
“VICTORIA! WHAT ARE YOU DOING!”
F*****ck! Mum had caught me at it!
My limbs went rigid and I practically sh*t myself as she pulled me up by my dungaree straps and dumped me on the floor.
In hindsight, she probably saved my life, as I could’ve toppled into the freezer and had the lid slam shut on me, but at the time it was a major catastrophe.
My mum was a formidable character and didn’t take kindly to me blatantly disobeying her.
She gave me a very hot bottom for my sins - I still remember inspecting the raised handprints on my thighs when I was sent to my room.
Relax! It was OK to beat kids in the 70’s, in fact it was expected!
Nevertheless, the trauma has stayed with me since that day, and I can’t look at a tub of coffee ice cream without feeling a little anxious.
Throughout childhood and beyond, our little brains are storing experiences, and the ones charged with the most emotion are the easiest to recall.
Oftentimes, this can serve us well, but sometimes it can lead to irrational fears and limiting beliefs that hold us back, and it’s useful to explore where those blocks originate from so you can free yourself from them.
These blocks can feel so much part of our personality that we assume they can’t be changed, but more often than not, with a little self awareness and conscious effort to put them behind you, you can make changes.
It’s one of the most valuable areas I explore with clients in coaching sessions.