On Sunday night Rob, the kids and I were sitting at the dinner table talking about our weekend. I told the boys a few stories about my childhood. They love hearing about my family and the ridiculous things we use to do. I remember them fondly and always look back with love, admiration and delight. The five of us were so close and shared the most wonderful experiences.
Each story ended with the kids in stitches. They were hysterical when I told them that we tried to shove my younger brother down the laundry shoot. They couldn’t believe that a homeless man came up behind my mom and started to bark at her while we were in San Francisco. I always remember being loved by my parents and I remember laughing and always having fun with them. Always.
I wonder what memories my kids will have of me.
Will they remember me waking them up on the weekend and taking them to McDonald’s for breakfast in their PJ’s? Will they remember me decorating the house for Halloween and carving the pumpkins together? Going to the park? Volunteering in their class? Dropping them off at school? Going to all of their programs? Laughing, hugging, kissing, cuddling, supporting, encouraging?
Will they remember those things?
Or will they remember mom being in the bathroom?
It became all too familiar for them to come looking for me and hear “I’ll just be a few more minutes”, which really meant a lifetime.
That would be awful. Horrible. The worst. They shouldn’t remember those things. Those things never, ever should’ve happened in the first place. But they did and so I need to do everything in my power to erase those memories and create meaningful ones that they will cherish the way I do about shoving my brother down the laundry shoot.