The Rustling Leaves of Memory

I had one of those “stop in your shoes, take your breath away, sweaty palms, face feels flushed” moments last week.

On Saturday afternoon, our middle daughter offered to drive her big sister back to the dorms.  Together they packed up the stuff going back to campus — Christmas presents, clean linens and clothes, the TV she didn’t want to leave unattended over break, her laptop and the stash of food, case of water, and assorted sundries that define dorm life. In mock astonishment, I said, “You are offering to help your sister? For nothing? There’s got to be something in it for you.”  

“Nope, it’s practice,” she said. “After all, Mom, in the fall we’ll both be moving out.”

I felt like someone had thrown cold water in my face. Her casual statement has thrown my sense of the world out of kilter ever since. In just a few months, two of my three children will no longer live under my roof. We will have be down to one messy teenage boy, our black lab puppy and plenty of time, energy and attention to give — but fewer children to give it to.

There are times when the alarm goes off in the morning and I am pulled from a deep sleep when I’m fooled into believing that there are still cribs in the next room and my young adults are still babies. (My stiff joints and the color paint on the bedroom walls are the cues to remind me that those babies will probably sleep until noon). I feel like I could blink my eyes and I could still be changing diapers, playing with Little Tykes and offering sippy cups and goldfish crackers. Instead of tuition bills, career plans and boyfriends, if I woke up in the morning to Polly Pocket, light-up sneakers, orthodontist appointments and slumber parties, it wouldn’t feel any different to me.  

Memory is an interesting phenomenon.

According to theory, there are three types of memory.

• Sensory memory allows us to be able to rapidly take in information and process it immediately. Sensory memory is like when we pick up a pencil and our senses remind us that we’ve seen that before and know its purpose.  
• Short-term memory lets us take in short bits of new information but then quickly flushes it out of our brain.  (You tell me your phone number, but if I don’t write it down, it may be gone pretty quickly).  
• Long-term memory lets us remember dates, events, things that happened to us, facts, experiences and things to which we have had repeated exposure.

And then there is Mom memory.

I can tell you each of my kids’ allergies, the time of day they were born, their most hated foods, how many hours I spent in labor, if they’ve ever had broken bones, and where they stayed for their first sleepover. I know their clothing and shoe sizes, when they took their first steps, how long they took to potty train and their favorite Disney movie.

I can remember in specific detail the day that I brought each of my babies home from the hospital.

On the other hand, I usually forget that Friday is garbage day. I don’t remember the names of all of my own teachers, where I caught the bus when I was in elementary school or how old I was when I got my ears pierced.

Mom memory helps me remember the number of staples my son got in his head after the tailgate, the look on my child’s face when she was cut from the sports team and the name of every kid who has ever made my daughter cry. Mom memory is pointed, selective and usually razor accurate.

Mom memory can soften with time. That family screaming match before church on Easter morning a few years ago becomes just a minor tiff. Wasn’t Easter wonderful that year?

Our mind plays funny tricks on us. We remember big events — good and bad — but the day-to-day stuff thankfully gets blurry. We gather collective memories about the past  but don’t always remember each individual Christmas or the day-to-day events of getting kids out the door for school. We remember songs, smells, feelings, ideas and what it felt like to have infants and toddlers in the house.   

As the parent of one PSU sophomore and a soon-to-be freshman who is rarely home, it’s weird when they aren’t here. It’s strange adjusting meals for three instead of five. The washer and dryer are used to three loads a day. I actually have gasoline in my car. I don’t have to watch The Real Housewives of Anywhere and my hair spray is always where I put it last. Sigh. 

On some days, I’d give it all up for stepping on legos in the middle of the night, outstretched arms and tears after a bad dream, and “Please read the book again Mom. It’s my favorite.”

So, off they go. Getting older. Developing their own lives. Making their own connections. 

For the most part, we’ve done what we’ve needed to do. We’ve given them a foundation and hope they make great choices along the way. They aren’t little girls anymore. They are amazing young women.  Even though I want to try to freeze the moment or somehow go back to the good old days, I know in my heart that it won’t and shouldn’t happen. They love hearing the stories of their first words, the funny things they said, the silly things they did, but they are ready to create their own memories. 

The upside is that we still have at least five more years of younger brother living at home. I’ll let you know if he survives our undivided attention and if his life is different without having older sisters around. 

If I forget to tell you, remind me. Sometimes my memory gets a little funny.