That being said, it's 11:56--I'll make it brief. For a number of reasons, which I will not elucidate here, at least not now, I have been thinking about the finite nature of the period of parenting young children. A conversation I had this morning with a friend who is a mother of three summed up the essence of my thoughts: she mentioned how her parents will often say they don't remember when she asks them something about her own early childhood, a sentiment--although I've never really processed this as it relates to my life now--my own parents have echoed many times.
YOU DON'T REMEMBER?
How is this humanly possible? When you have a small child, regardless of whatever else it is you are doing--brain surgery, teaching fourth grade, cleaning toilets--that small child's existence is so all-consuming, even when it isn't, or you try to pretend that it isn't, that the rest of the world seems actually colored differently--a little tepid, perhaps. With my recent posts in mind, I must point out that I am not making a case here for children as the center of the universe or the sun around which your planet must revolve; I merely mean to say that it is virtually impossible not to be thinking about them on some level pretty much all of the time, for better and for worse. It's just the way it is.
And then tonight, I was reading a book to Lily in which the phrase "just plain" appeared, and I suddenly realized I had totally forgotten about the period of at least a year when Lily liked to strip off all of her clothing and appear in front of me announcing that she felt like being "just plain Lily." How could I forget this? Now, forcing myself, I think I can even remember the first time she did it, my pleasure at the perfection of the description, but how could I have let myself forget it at all? And knowing this, how many other moments have I already forgotten, will I never remember again?
When I ask my parents questions about myself at 3, 4, 5, they are often of a practical or technical nature. Did I have ear infections? How tall was I? What were my favorite toys or friends? They usually squint, look puzzled, then blank. These were loving, present, available parents. My mother cared for us full time during those years. My father kept baby books recording our every word and bite of food. Did I like kindergarten? I ask. Was I ever shy? The look. A moment of recognition, insight. A Yes, I think so, and the squint again. Or maybe that was your sister?
My point is this: How, how can I , will I forget? Must I? Must one? Some of it, I think, with a certain sadness and a sense of relief, which somehow don't seem contradictory.
2 comments:
The sad part of parenting is that you do forget and you do want to go back and do it better this time.... but we can't do that!
Above message was from me.
Post a Comment