On memories and reminders
It was the strange metallic tinkling that prompted me to check.
I know by heart his typical sounds of a sleepy nap delay, as most mothers do. The enthusiastic mumbles as his stuffed animals act out a conversation. The dull thunk of books being pulled out and sorted. His forehead slowly dragging across the mesh gate in his doorway, a final silent plea to let him out. The lid of the wipes container flipping open, if he’s feeling bold.
But this time, my ears perked at a new sound. I had just settled down with my afternoon snack—a cup of yogurt, strawberry—when I reluctantly trodded down the hallway to intervene and redirect my youngest to bed. His mattress was on the floor, to curtail his usual antics of “riding” the sides of his toddler bed in a delusional game of Bedtime Cowboy.
Standing innocently by his gate, he tapped a cup against the rail. A metal cup. An empty cup that normally has water in it. My eyes darted back to his tiny bookshelf, which, in hindsight, was a poor choice for a water cup location. He scooted behind his reading chair, hiding as I shrieked at what I saw.
A lot of mistakes were made leading up to this situation, to be clear. The cup shouldn’t have been on that shelf. The shelves shouldn’t have been constructed of open slatted crates. I should have checked him earlier. But the monitor camera doesn’t see that spot and I just wanted to sit and eat.
Seeing water on top of the crates, I frantically yanked books out of their line-up and grabbed an old towel from the hall closet. A quick assessment sorted the books into haphazard piles—dry books and soggy books. Notes of gratitude flipped through my thoughts as I processed the damage. “At least the book with Gigi’s voice recording was on another shelf.” “Thank goodness his favorite construction book was on the other side.”
I wiped water from the affected books and carefully fanned them out on the floor, pulling open the blinds for full sunlight and turning the ceiling fan on high. A nap wasn’t happening today. Again.
Why was I so upset over the books? It seemed ridiculous. As usual, an overwhelming parenting moment was a confluence of circumstances. Frustration in comparison, that my oldest never pulled antics like this. Frustration in free time, that this tiny child was likely at the end of his nap days. Frustration that these items, mere belongings, just stuff, seemed so important.
Often, things are more than just things. Our stuff becomes our memories. Physical items hook into invisible cognitive strings, dredging up wisps of the past that may otherwise be lost.
Most of the wet books were inconsequential, but I almost cried when I got to a couple we received from the baby shower for my first child. Books I’ve read for over six years, helping put into words the emotions of motherhood and love for a child that seemed to escape explanation. These gifted authors and illustrators worked magic in these tiny tomes, creating the lyrics to our bedtime routine, weaving their words into our memories of sleepy snuggles and learning language.
A book about Washington, D.C., our home for so many years. A book gifted from an older family member, inscribed and passed down for a new generation to enjoy. They’re just books, but they’re also memories.
We recently had to move the glider chair out of the same room, when it was used more often as a pirate ship on the high seas than an actual chair. Not having an appropriate space elsewhere in the house, my husband suggested it had run its course. Time for the glider to find a new home.
I know I hang on to things for too long, some unnecessarily. But not this chair. This chair held me as I held newborns. It was my constant companion at all hours of the night, when nursing felt so lonely. It was my landing spot for years. It’s just a chair, but it’s also a memory. The carpet is worn in the spot in front of the glider, from hours of my feet shuffling in to nurse or hold my babies. I consider it holy, the column of floor to ceiling and the air in between, having held and witnessed the nourishment and flourishing of this child.
We’re toying with the idea of moving. From the house where we brought him home, to a new house we would build on a plot of land, surrounded by woods and a winding stream.
I have fuzzy memories from my toddler and preschool ages. My husband has none.
It’s difficult coming to terms that “these are the days” won’t even start for my youngest until years later. That some of my favorite days with him will not even register.
Will he even remember this house, and how we lived here?
Will he remember eating popsicles on the patio, and his older brother giving his head a gentle yet firm hug to help resolve his brain freeze?
Will he remember the pirate ship we built for them? That he was scared of the swing when it moved in the wind? The summer the cicadas came and he picked exoskeletons off the fence to collect in his tiny wagon?
It feels like we should stay in this house, to help the memories stick. If we leave, will the memories also go?
It’s easy to underestimate the possibilities of the future. It’s easy to stay here. I know him here. He knows life here. He knows the long hallway of our brick ranch house, lined with doors he gleefully learned to shut and lock. The fake hardwood floors that supported him as a screaming baby during tummy time. Floors that held up his pudgy knees as he crawled about and his uncertain flat feet for those first cautious steps. Floors that I hated when I moved in and planned to upgrade. Until our family upgraded to include him, and then all house projects were long forgotten.
Sharing similar sentiments, my oldest confided in me one day. He paused before washing his hands in the bathroom, wide eyes staring meaningfully at mine. I could tell this was important.
“Mommy, you know why I don’t like baths?”
He’d clearly had sufficient time to contemplate life, standing right beside his bathing vessel.
“Because they wash away the dirt on my feet,” he continued. “The dirt has my memories of the day. When it goes away, I lose my memories.”
The dirt has memories. The dirt is memories. We take bits with us, unwittingly.
A token. This happened. We were here. And now, it’s gone.
Last year, it was the infant car seat. I don’t know why this one hit me so hard. This is the seat that carried both my babies home from the hospital. When my dad helped load my firstborn inside over six years ago, he remarked this little pod was protective enough to send the baby into space. This receptacle l lived inside our car and our house for years, like a silent sentry accompanying our comings and goings.
The seat transported our firstborn from the East Coast to Ohio more times than I care to remember. It flew with us to California. It then brought our second baby home and is where he stayed confined as his big brother met him and squealed with delight.
German-engineered, the seat had side wings for impact protection and a floor load leg for extra stability. Dad was right about the spaceship idea.
But someone else needed it. A woman in our church found herself caring for a newborn and needed a car seat. The timing was perfect. I took pictures of the seat in my trunk and then again in the bin at church, like it was going to its first day of school.
The simple act of passing along items is as necessary as it is bittersweet. It happens slowly, usually. The newborn clothes. The bassinet. The baby swing. The outgrown items leave my house at a trickle, all evidence of a baby happily, thankfully, doing the thing babies do: grow up. They are the breadcrumbs of our family passing through time. These items served their purpose and served it well. Held the sleeping baby, made them laugh, helped them eat—they are critical for survival as a new parent. Then they’re gone.
The water-soaked books in my son’s nursery ended up ok. Dried and recovered as best as we could hope. I take solace in saving these simple things, gathering what we can store and capturing photos of what we cannot. Nothing I keep is particularly valuable, or even originally intended to be mementos. They are merely the remnants of everyday life. How we pass the days, and all that. But as a collection, they are a testament to life itself.
