Memories

(This started off as a comment to my entry below on Little League. But it became so long and off the main topic that I decided to post it as an entry in it's own right. It is long and rambling, but I don't have the time to edit it as my wireless connection is still down (imagine me shaking my fist at the sky here and wailing)and I have landscapers outside digging up my yard with heavy equipment and small children who seem hell bent on getting run over by earth movers. Such is my life.)


What will my children remember?

I doubt they will remember the number of baseball games they have played. Time will ease their memories of how many games were lost. But they will remember that their father was there to coach when no one else was. They will remember that we made their desire to play a sport a priority for eight short weeks. They will remember what making a commitment means, inconveniences and all.

Next week my husband has to be out of the country on a business trip and will miss one game. He has asked for a parent volunteer to step in. Guess how many people have volunteered?

I'll be there. With five younger children, ages 7 and under.

I'll be there, sweating my butt off and my hair getting gray faster than I can color it from the stress of having to keep the two and four year olds out of trouble.

I'll silently curse the people who thought putting gravel everywhere around the fence ,where the bleachers are, was a good idea. My children will each weigh approximately 20 pounds more from all the gravel they have stuffed in their pockets to bring home. They'll tell me we don't have good rocks at home. And they are right, we don't. I like it that way. But I won't tell them that.

I'll be there. Not because I love baseball, but because it is important to them. I'll scream their names as they come up for bat. And when my tiny little 9 yr old pitches I'll scream, "You go, little man!" Later on he'll tell me he heard me cheering for him and he thought it was cool. I know that we are quickly approaching the time when I won't be able to do anything cool in his eyes. But, thankfully, we aren't there yet. He doesn't yet realize how very uncool I am. So I will cherish it, take it as a bittersweet compliment, probably giving it more weight than he intends.

I'll be there and I'll cheer for the other kids too. The ones whose parents aren't there, for whatever reason. When they come off the field after the game I'll give my children high fives and tell them how awesome they are. Whether they won or not. I'll commiserate and congratulate.

And we will talk about the game on the way home in the van. And we will laugh together. At some point I'll probably say, because I seem to have said it every other time, "So your team sucks, so what? *You* tried your very best and that is all that *you* can do." I'll make a mental note to remember that advice and be kinder to myself.

We'll probably stop to get drippy ice cream cones on the way home. The babies will fall asleep in the van and I'll have to carry their sweaty sticky bodies into the house. I'll nuzzle my face into their necks and inhale their baby smell. I already know that time passes so quickly and soon this stage will be over for me.

Their little bodies will sprawl across the couch and they will be in that deep sleep only small children are afforded. I'll wipe them down with a cool wet washcloth, trying to get as much of the dirt and icecream drippings off of them that I can.

I'll carry my daughter upstairs and put her to bed. I'll study her face for a minute after I lay her down, and brush the wisps of hair, which have curled up from the heat, off of her face. Even though she is asleep, I'll pause at the bedroom door and say, 'I love you.' I think she can hear me in her dreams.

Their older siblings will be running around the house re-enacting various parts of the game. I'll probably yell too much at them to settle down and go take their showers. I always seem to yell too much. But I'll laugh too. In spite of myself, my children will make me laugh.

And after what seems like an eternity, the children will all be in bed. I will kiss them all, tuck them into bed, and sing "twinkle, twinkle little star" a few times. Like I have every night for the past ten years, and like I will for at least the next ten, or however long they will let me.

I'll go downstairs and pick up the articles of clothing that have been discarded around the house and bring them to the laundry room. I'll straighten up around the house and kick the random shoes into a pile before I flop onto the couch.

Children will come downstairs, in turn, needing water, to use the preferred downstairs bathroom, get a hug, get a toy that has been forgotten, or just tell me something of earth shattering importance that has been forgotten until that moment. After several rounds of this I'll tell them that I am off duty and all further discussions will need to wait until morning. Someone will test this.

As I go to bed that night I'll check in on my children, all finally asleep. I will marvel at how big they are sprawled across their beds. The sight of their scraped knees and bruised shins will make me smile, because it will mean they were having fun playing outside. I'll see their sunkissed cheeks and the freckles across their noses. I can almost see the young man that my eldest son will grow into, his bed filled up with gangly arms and legs. I'll pull the sheets up and cover them back up.

Before I leave their rooms and close their bedroom doors, I'll pause for a moment to hear them softly breathe. Even though they are no longer babies, I still need to do this.

They don't know I do this. They will have no memory of it. They wouldn't understand anyway. Not until they have children of their own will they understand.

And days similar to this one will happen again and again. Another chance to do it better. Another chance to be the mother I long to be. Such is the benefit to be the younger children in a large family.

What will my children remember? I don't know.

I hope time will soften the edges off their memories. I hope that they remember me kindly and forget the times I lost my temper. I hope they will realize I always tried my best, though at times it probably won't be enough, and I will disappoint them. I will hurt their feelings, without ever meaning to. And some of their deepest hurts I probably won't know about until years later. I hope they will remember a childhood of laughter, and less of sadness. I hope they remember me as a better mother than I felt like I was. I hope they remember how important they were to me. I hope they will forgive my failures.


This is how I'll remember it all. I hope that it is good enough.

I'll hope I was good enough