Right then, right there. The look on her face, the way her laughter made me feel alive, the love for me that I could see in her eyes. I never wanted to forget it. So many days I focused my attention on schedules, to-do lists, and the things I had yet to accomplish. I finished the day with a kind of self-inventory, and many times I came up lacking. I looked at what I had left undone, the moments that caused me regret, and the mountain of never ending chores. So many days I missed the forest for the trees, and the next thing I knew the newborn was having her first birthday, or my firstborn was losing her first tooth. So many firsts gone in a flash, and when I looked back fondly what would I remember?
Would I remember how many hours the kitchen sink stayed empty, or how the baby grinned that mischievous, two-toothed smile when I caught her doing something naughty? Would I look back on memories of how many times a day I swept the floor, or would it be the particular musical quality of my four year old’s voice when she said, “you’re de best mommy in de hough wide wolld!” She wouldn’t always talk like that, you know?
I want to remember this.
I wanted to remember the important things, the fleeting things, the things that refused to stay put before me. The growing things, the perfectly imperfect things, the messy, wonderful, lovely lot of it. I wanted to pick up my squeaky middle child, who often cried over insignificant occurrences, and I wanted to put her in my pocket. I wanted to keep her little, and keep her always wanting to cuddle with mommy, the way her little head fit perfect up against my chest, or nestled in the crook of my arm. I wanted to remember that. Every. Single. Detail of that. Etched into my memory banks like initials carved into a tree.
Despite how crazy, exasperating some days were, despite how my patience might wear thin, or how at the end of the day I just wanted little people to stop clutching onto me. Despite all that I knew this one very important detail. I loved it. My children were the air I breathed, and sometimes when the light caught their faces just right, or when I watched them sleeping, or when I was mesmerized by the way the dim sunlight reflected off the white snow into their brilliant, joyful eyes, in those moments I knew I was standing witness to some of the greatest happenings on this planet. I was privy to the unfolding of the greatest story ever told, and I wanted to remember every lovely detail.
I want to remember this.
May I always take the time to notice the beauty before me. May I be quick to smile, slow to anger, and even quicker to give chase when my child says, “betcha can’t catch me!” May my focus be on what really matters, and maybe I can remember not to sweat the rest. One day the rooms will be quiet, the to-do list will have dwindled, and in those moments may I be able to play fully the sweet memories of precious years gone by.
This article originally appeared at BrieGowen.com.
