I don't feel like I have a particularly good memory. I remember the stories that are told in our family and facts I need to know for daily life but something specific needs to happen for information to go into my long term memory vault. If someone asks what happened the year I was 5 or when a movie came out, I have a hard time bringing up those details.
Stories, the well-worn stories turned over and over, sifted and shared like precious gems; those, I have many of. The stories of childhood, S's and my engagement, s's and K's births and countless others are told and retold. I remember times I have said to myself, remember this, this moment. Unless that moment is part of a story, though, its usually gone with the other electric signals that pass through and don't get stored in the vault. The telling of a story or the keeping of a journal or a blog helps me remember treasured moments I don't want to lose.
Yesterday when K and I went shopping and she slipped her hand into mine, I froze in the way I would if a (non-threatening, adorable) wild animal suddenly climbed on my lap.
I held my breath and said, remember, remember, remember.
My 12 1/2 year old is poised between child and woman. She retreats to her room after school to listen to music and text her friends, hisses at me not to kiss her as I walk her into school and can get herself on the bus in the morning. She probably won't be reaching for my hand much longer.
s, eight, still regularly holds my hand and loves his parents' company. I routinely wonder when he will decide he prefers sleeping in his own bed as opposed to ours. (I asked him a few weeks ago if, when he is married with kids of his own, he and his whole family will sleep in our bed. His response was emphatic; MOM, I'm NOT getting MARRIED!) (I'll be telling that story at his wedding, if he ever has one.)
I know many parents dread the signs of their kids growing up. They cry secret tears at the first haircut, the first lost tooth, the first day of kindergarten. These milestones have always been cause for celebration in my heart and I have been glad to have been spared that sadness. While I these days fly by with anticipation of the next event, the specter of the kids graduating and going off to college has reduced me to tears since they were born.
We live a block from the college dorms. One August weekend every year, the street are clogged with vehicles of parents dropping off their children for the first time. The kids always ask, why so much traffic, Mom? Then, are you OK, Mom? as the tears stream down my cheeks. The event I dread most has always been so far away, but of course creeps ever closer.
A few months ago, I realized maybe I don't have to be sad about them going off to college. Perhaps I can use the next few years to reframe this event so that I can be as excited about them going off to college (as excited as they will be) as I was about them going off to kindergarten.
So, this entry today is to remember the day we walked hand in hand and K, without being prompted, said thanks for taking me, Mom three times. Another in the string of precious memories to keep forever, and to pull out and treasure anytime. Another beautiful day to appreciate, this time, this place and not fear what is to come.
