A family journal, of sorts

There’s something about parenthood, especially the sleep deprived days of early motherhood (although, 4 years in, I’m still getting very little sleep- anyone else??), that overwhelms and makes it hard to remember the way things were. It’s hard to believe when you’re in the thick of it all, the frequent middle of the night wakings, constant feedings, tantrums, diaper changes, that you’ll ever be able to forget how things are. You swear you’ll remember the details and be able to accurately assess parenthood, unlike all those other parents who generalize it years later. But then it’s like this giant wave of constant cleaning, cooking, and laundry, the never ending mental load and list of things to do, time as a constant measured only by the number of meals your children have rejected (all of them), that crashes over you and rolls you around, with only infrequent opportunities to rest and come up for air. And in the midst of that colossal load of parenting, the memories fade away. Your brain forgets them in favor of reserving energy to fight today’s battles, to keep up with your constantly lengthening to-do list. 2 years later, you don’t remember how many times a night your baby woke, at what age they started using a cup instead of a bottle (or boob), how frequently did you have to cut their nails, and you find yourself yearning to remember how many words your kid was saying by time they turned 2….what was their favorite food again? The details, they all slip away without even being noticed.

And that’s just for normal people. I am not normal people. One of the first things any friend of mine will tell you about me is that I have a horrible, truly useless memory. Not the kind of bad memory that leads you to forget where you left your keys, lose your sunglasses, or struggle to remember a long-ago acquaintance’s name (or the name of the person you just met), but the kind of memory that fails to file away entire life events. I have been told by my family that I have ridden a helicoptor and hiked the top of a glacier while on an Alaska cruise. Did I? I have no memory of that. Who can forget something like that? When I moved to Washington DC and visited Mount Vernon for what I thought was the first time, I was told I have in-fact, already seen George Washington’s dentures previously in my life. I didn’t know I had even been to the region before. In college, I made it nearly half-way through a statistics class before I realized, wait, I have already taken an introduction statistics class previously. I have nearly no memories of my childhood, from high school, or most of college. I already find what remains of my young adult memories are slipping away.

But here’s the thing, I DO remember the things for which I have tangible pictures that I can use to renew and spark memories of past experiences. I at least have evidence of it in a way that my brain can visually recall it. It’s sort of like a visual filing system for myself.

It can be hard to admit these types of large flaws to ourselves, but also knowledge is power to do something about it. Knowing this about myself, I am more determined to document my children’s childhood with quality pictures so I don’t forget both the big milestones AND the small everyday moments that make up the bulk of our lives together. I know that they too will grow to cherish having pictures of their childhood, even if I do it primarily for my own benefit. Because I know, as my children age, their childhood will slip away from me more so than it does for other parents. I will need those visual cues to help me remember the special time I had with them as children.