The past couple weeks have been a whirlwind of activity and it is clear to me now why yesterday my body felt like it just needed a rest day! For one, I had my 44th birthday and that was a weeklong feeling of doing fun things and bleeding money on said fun things. But that’s fine “treat yo self “or whatever, right? It never, or hopefully never, gets old to now have a partner who puts in effort for my birthday and makes me a cake rather than my former tradition of going and buying myself two cupcakes and planning something and/or buying a gift and saying “this is what we got me”.
I got to spend the following weekend away in Vancouver with my daughter, who, at nearly 16 was a total delight! I had a bit of trepidation that she would be bored or have her face adhered to her phone and not engage in much conversation, but she chatted a lot and it was wonderful. My experience with teenagers has been that they won’t talk or they won’t shut up; there is no middle. I appreciate that it was the later on this trip.
Going to Vancouver was an interesting time for me because my Ex and I used to make that same trek and I worried that it would be bitter sweet for me. He and I would have that few days away and run the Marathon or Half Marathon. Stay in the same hotel and walk for hours to the same places and it was a nice time. I wanted to make it new with her, and we stayed in a new hotel, in a different area, and explored similar and different places. The last time I went was four years ago and although we were broken up and moved apart at that point, we have our close relationship, and we went together. It was a good but hard trip. I was there for the Marathon and he was there for me. We walked and talked a lot and I was sad about a boy and he joked about going out on tinder dates while we were there. It sounds weird, but our openness is a bit weird I suppose. Being there with our daughter was a precious shift, and hopefully a great memory for her.
The following Wednesday, my Son was leaving on a Jet Plane and moving to another city in another province and starting out on his own. This was exciting and sad. But more exciting and happy! I am so thrilled for him. Since he’s been away, I think we may communicate more! He has sent me pictures of his groceries and the organization under his bathroom sink. He has shared his healthy breakfast and his huge dinner sandwich. We spoke on the phone for over an hour the other day and I was the one letting him go. I realized that the main feeling I have about it is actually envy. I am happy and proud but oh, to be 19 and starting out on your own, in a new and beautiful city! What an adventure! God how I took it all for granted and wanted to just be an adult. Looking back, what potential that time held! Amazing.
And speaking of memory…where is mine? I have been reading biographies and have now made it a thing to only read biographies this year. Why? Who knows, it seemed like a fun idea. Last year I gave myself the goal to read 14 books and I read 17. This year I set the bar at 20. So far I am 8 books in and 10 books since December have been biographies (but the first two were technically last year, so they don’t count in my 20). As I have been reading these recollections, I am ever stunned by my own complete and utter blank slate. Like seriously, where is my mind?
I honestly don’t know how anyone recalls their life in a book, as I feel like mine is a blur. I luckily have been keeping journals since I was 18, but they are sporadic and generally written in times of strife and upset and not in times of joy and ease. My overall journalistic recount would imply a dramatic and somewhat upsetting life and I don’t think that’s actually the case at all. There are huge gaps of time where all was well and therefore no entries. I have attempted the “gratitude journal” concept, to no real adherence. I have attempted to just write the day to day or happy times, but meh, I haven’t cared to keep it up. So, when I’m dead, if my kids are even able to read cursive, it will look like a lot of emotional drivel but It wasn’t all that, so perhaps I should burn them or something…
While reading these biographies I feel a little caught up in the knowledge that memory is fallible. That we truly do not see things as they were, but as we have molded them to be or have adjusted and embellished them overtime, into dream like concoctions that the others who were there may see in a completely different light. Take, for example, childhood memories that are more like flashes and feelings, than actual facts. My boyfriend sees his childhood from a perspective of perfect idealization. He has wonderful memories and associates his early life as being one of joy and fun and remembers it lovingly. I, on the other hand, have many great memories and many blanks. I can’t really recall a lot. Just flashes and moments. Overall good. But I remember small things. Feelings or events that mattered somehow. I would say I had a good childhood but mostly I don’t remember a lot of bad. “4 stars, would recommend”; but no deep review paragraph.
My daughter, while on our trip said that her counselor asked her about her earliest childhood memory, of which she then told me. It was funny because it was in our old house and was a very basic moment of being carried to bed, but the actual information was off; being carried upstairs to bed, when we lived in a bungalow. That girl slept with us till she was 4 and she and her brother shared a room until he was around 10. When we separated them into their own rooms and moved ourselves down to the basement (two bedroom house) they missed each other terribly and you could hear the super cute “goodnight’s” and “I miss you’s” when they went to their individual rooms. She hardly recalled that!
I can’t imagine that my life has been exciting or eventful enough for a biography, but I don’t know what kind of hypnosis I’d have to undergo to even remember it! Maybe these people sit with themselves and try to dive deep into the years bit by bit? But then there is the conflicting story paradox of those that were there. There are definitely moments we recall with seemingly perfect accuracy because they were associated with other things; like, “it was July because I remember that it was three days after your birthday and we had just moved to such and such…” type memories, those have to be accurate right?
I remember being pregnant with my son, and having a fairly crusty older lady colleague who stayed home with her kids tell me basically that nothing I do as a mother will be remembered (nice, right!?) But she was not totally wrong. I used to take my kids to playgrounds all over to get new fun things to do, I had my son in kid yoga and did ALL. THE. THINGS. But they don’t know now! However, in my theory of remembering feelings and moments and not actual events, they do “remember”. They have a seed in them that recalls some sort of childhood and their mother; even if not specifically the actual events.
My ex remembers taking the kids to their extra-curricular activities and going to swimming and such, but I recall that that was the case because I scheduled these things and specifically put things on days where he would have to take them, so that he would actually do something with them or be somehow involved. My son remembers an absent (emotionally, not physically) father who let him down constantly. I remember an absent husband who did the same. My daughter doesn’t see it like that and is happy and content. We are all the villain in someone’s story.
So as I read these biographies, and see my son venture out, I am seeing various shades of how we construct our own narrative and recall the timelines and events of our lives based on the emotions that shaped them, and not always the bigger picture with all the moving parts. As I see my son go off, I see my own mother more clearly and recognize how individual we all are but also how connected. How much I don’t know about my children’s memories and lives and day to day. How much my own parents do not know me, or me, them. I invest heavily in the relationships I have with my kids so that they will see me as a person and not “just mom”. I want to see them and been seen by them. As I continue to tell my son, while he struggles with his identity and starting out with a whole ocean of possibility ahead of him; we only have Now. So maybe not being able to remember your 5th birthday party is totally fine. Maybe it’s actually better.
How connected to our past should we be? I think of the idea of the chick who “peaked in high school” and lives with the past as an accessory to the now. I don’t want that! I would hate to think that my best days are behind me and that my memories are the summit where I plant my flag. I get that our experiences and memories are what make us but I also shutter at the idea that we are unchangeable and fixed statues molded years before. I want my kids and myself to be ever flowing water sculptures! I am a creature of habit and know that I’ve held the same job for over 18 years and some of my clothes are a decade old (or more), but I would hope that my mind has been fluid and malleable into new and better versions of me. Maybe my lack of memory is less about forgetting and more about moving forward. I hope so.
Periscopecake 