You'll always remember my name, right Mommy?, she asked me yesterday, floating through the kitchen in her fairy wings and knee socks.
Of course I'll remember your name, I told her.
When you make it through the blur of babydom, it's surprising how much is easily forgotten. Pictures capture brief, fleeting snippets of time - some posed, some not - all goofy, joyous, and proud.
But for each of the 10,000 other moments that were steeped in frustration and confusion, I have no physical record. They sit in my mind's eye, a flat canvas in my head that is slowly fading. Its vivid animation lost in the annals of my tired mind.
The rough feeling of the bald spot on the back of her head that we thought would never grow back. The ache in my arms from rocking her to sleep every night that I thought I'd always have to do. The salty taste of my midnight tears as I held her in the ER after she broke her leg.
That is the beauty of motherhood.
The rough edges that are never quite sanded. The sharp points that bruise but bring texture. The remnants and scraps that don't fit anywhere else.
I package these edges, points, and scraps as best I can, in tidy little stories. Sometimes funny. Sometimes not. For times when she and he and the one soon to be ask me "Do you remember, mama?" and I can no longer laugh or cry and say "Yes, little one..." and recount it like it was yesterday.
For that time when I might stare at their faces, now older and wiser, and grasp their sweet hands in mine and not be able to tell them one single story about their life. Or mine.
They will change and grow and leave and become.
And whether they ask me every day, or never ask at all, and whether I remember their name, or am left to live inside my own head, staring blankly out at a life I do not know, I want them to know my story. And more importantly, I want them to know theirs.
These words will live on past my memory of my daughter's name.
This is my mommy blog.