I consider myself one of the luckiest moms in the world. I get to enjoy a relationship with two grown children, and I also have a wonderful little boy who keeps me informed on the latest technology, Legos, Goosebumps books, and has taught me to love snakes and spiders.
I am a sentimental kind of gal, and I have kept a baby book for each child, tried my best to write down the things they were doing at different stages of their childhood, and kept millions of drawings and crafts they did in school and at church.
Though I used to think I was keeping all of those things to give to them when they grow up, I know now those things are really just for me. Each item has a memory attached to it. There are only a few things my mom saved of mine that mean anything to me, and already my grown children have shown they don't have any desire to have most of the things I saved of theirs.
Memories are our own. We remember things differently. I think memories are fascinating. The way we retrieve them and store them is of great interest to me. Recently a television show triggered a memory for me. I was transported back in time to when my oldest son was less than two years old.
He was fascinated with the Snuggle fabric softener bear on the television commercial. As soon as he heard the voice he would come running into the room to see the bear on TV.
I know he doesn't remember that. He loved it so much that I ordered a stuffed Snuggle bear for him through one of those Sunday mailers that comes with the newspaper. I'm sure that I could never convince him of how sweet it was to see his reaction to that bear, and I know I could not convince him to see that bear with affection now.
I know that if I try to share this memory with him I will get the inevitable flat, "I don't remember that," response. If I shared that memory it wouldn't mean anything to Dave.
It only means something to me, because it is my memory. And I am so blessed to have a lot of them.
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