I often wonder what my kids will remember about their childhood.
What little things that I do or say (or don’t do or don’t say) will stick with them for the rest of their lives? What experiences will be permanently seared into their little memories?
Sadie, who is 7 and my oldest, has a great memory. She recalls things that happened when she was only 2. She remembers playing with her baby sister when she was her only sister, riding on the big blue tractor in North Carolina, going to pick out Christmas trees in the snow, living with her grandparents, even her very first haircut.
So far, that’s what she remembers. She hasn’t asked me what I remember.
From the second she burst into my world in the cold brightness of the operating room in the hospital to curl up, chubby-cheeked and perfect, pink as a rosebud, on the cotton fabric of my hospital gown, I remember.
From the way she used to try to “catch” the water dripping from the washcloth during her bath to the crazy piggy-face she made when she was learning to eat solid foods, I remember.
From the way she used to hold her book upside down and “read” in her car seat to her proud grin when she felt her newly sprouted teeth with her tongue, I remember.
The way her wispy hair blew in her face as we rode together on the hayride to pick out her first pumpkin for Halloween. The way she squished the pumpkin between her little fingers when we carved it. The way the crocheted hat with the long green yarn stems from the top curled over her tender ears.
The way her left thumb always seemed to find her mouth, the way her other hand “tweezled” her stuffed Snoopy’s ear back and forth as she went to sleep.
I remember the day she brought me a dandelion, the very first flower I had ever been given by my own child. I remember when she crawled, when she held on to the side of her crib and stood up on shaky chunky legs and squealed with delight. The day she took her first steps. The day she learned to clap, to dance, to sing “happy to you!” on her birthday. The way she would say something was “stuckin” if she couldn’t get it loose. The way she would ask, “What’s dis now? What’s dat now?” when she was trying to figure something out.
I remember the way she would snuggle in for a bedtime story, the way she would listen, blue eyes wide, to the song I made up for her about angels in the clouds.
I remember the way she liked for me to rub her back (under her gown, not on top!) during quiet time and the way she laughed like crazy at private jokes between her and her cousins.
I remember the way I kissed her good night last night. The way she laughed at my silly rendition of "Twinkle Twinkle Little Star." The way I tucked her in, snug as a bug, under her pink and yellow daisy quilt.
I assume that I’ll have thousands more chances to do the very same thing, but if for some reason I don’t, I remember.
No, right now she doesn’t really know or care what I remember. If she asked me, though, I think I probably would say, “everything.”
-from my 8/28/11 Mama Says article for www.mentorpatch.com
