A Mom, a Blog, and the Life In-Between

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

Re-Building Memories

I've been very troubled lately but my swiss-cheese brain and the fact that I can't recall a single thing about giant chunks of my life. It's not something I purposely set out to do; there hasn't been any one thing that has made me think, "Quick! Delete, delete, delete!" But then again, I suppose that plenty of crappy things have happened, and my mind has done it's own thing with them and pretty much blocked them out. Except that in doing that, I've also lost whatever good things were happening at the time, which is an awful, awful feeling, to say the least.

Still, while there are many items in the "crappy things that have happened to me" category that are pretty wretched, a lot of the things that are blocked are those that were merely unpleasant or uncomfortable, but hardly traumatic. For example, if I hated a particular job at some point, then almost all that time period is blocked out. It seems that one negative thing sets off a chain reaction on everything else, so that everything, good memories included, fades away.

All these feelings came to a head last night. Max was having a bad night. He's sick with yet another respiratory infection, and he was having difficulty breathing. As a result, he was clingy and restless, but surprisingly cheerful nonetheless. He had fallen asleep around 7:45 p.m., and I had plans to soak in the tub for a while - my muscles ached, and given how bad he felt, he had given me one hell of an afternoon. Max, however, had other plans. He woke up an hour and a half later (time I spent cleaning and organizing, which made me need that soak in the tub even more) and would not settle down. He was wailing, trying to grab on to me, so what could I do but comfort him?

In a move that is sadly rare for me, I completely surrendered to the moment and his needs. I didn't mentally bitch about the bath I had to kiss good-bye, I didn't rush through the comforting motions so I could put him back down and bolt out of his room. I just took him in my arms, settled into our snuggle chair, and held him close to me, softly kissing his little hand, which he had slipped inside my shirt.

We stayed like that for a good while, and as I stared at his face, I realized that I had all but forgotten how this very thing had been our ritual up until almost four months ago, when I stopped breastfeeding him. I was flooded with memories of the last year and a half, and was instantly frustrated with how distant and vague those memories were. How is it possible that I've strived so hard to burn each moment of my life with my son into my brain, and not two years in, it's starting to fade away? I've made every effort to stop and enjoy the moments and create beautiful memories of them, consciously terrified of not being able to recall what he looked like as a newborn, what he smelled like as we snuggled, what his first sounds sounded like, his facial expressions, the moments where I felt like all the inconvenience and sacrifice on my end were so worth what I was experiencing right then and there. And now? I hold my son and cry because I have already forgotten our early rituals, because I can't recall how he looked at four months and how he felt in my arms as a newborn.

Will these memories ever come back to me, or are they gone for good? If I were to lose him, what would I do with all the blank spaces in my mind? How would I survive without the memories? How would I keep him alive? And when he's a grown man, how will I be able to look back and remember these days? How will I feel and understand the passage of the years, the happy moments, the pain, if I can't remember any of it? How much does my life ultimately matter if in the end, there is nothing for me to look back to?

Last night with my son in my arms, I did what I always do: I closed my eyes and told myself to remember it. I told myself to create a memory that included the sound of his labored breath, the feel of his body, the expression on his face. I told myself that everything depended on this one memory, this one night of me comforting my sick baby back to sleep. And it does. Everything depends on this moment, on moments like these, and my ability to remember them, to build the story of my life and give that life meaning.

Today, the memory of last night is vivid in my mind. I don't know how long it will last, and so I write about this memory in case I lose it. Maybe in the end, this is why I write - so that where my mind fails me, perhaps my words can save me.

Posted by Tere @ 2/06/2007 | Permalink |

7 Comments

babygirl posted at 2/06/2007 11:37 PM
OH, Tere, way to bring everything home and remind us about what is REALLY important.

You nailed it. THIS is what is we should remember.

Balou posted at 2/07/2007 9:51 AM
T, this is beautiful. I am teary-eyed as I read this. I can't wait until I am able to experience these feelings/moments for myself. Thank you for showing me that what I want is not fruitless.

tracey posted at 2/07/2007 1:05 PM
Oh my goodness. That was so poetic. So heartbreaking and beautiful. I too have gaping holes in my memory of my girls as babies. And with my extreme baby blues after my second was born, I fear that my memories of life with her are even fewer (and she's only three). I know exactly what you are talking about in this post. Hopefully our words will save us and help us remember. Even more for me, it's the photographs. I am thankful for those every day as they help me recall was is fleeting.

Tere posted at 2/07/2007 4:17 PM
Thanks, guys!

Tracey, it's so nice to see you in these parts!

Stacy posted at 3/01/2007 10:10 AM
That is a lovely post and very well written. I completely understand, as I am in the same boat...I think most mothers feel teh same way. If only we could capture those moments in time and bottle them up. My memory has gotten decidedly worse after having babies, and I think that our memories leave our bodies with the umbillical cord!

kfk posted at 3/01/2007 2:17 PM
Well deserved Perfect Post Award. Congrats!

Andrea posted at 3/02/2007 12:12 PM
Sometimes I wish I had taken more pictures of my son's first years (he's three now) because there are so many things I cannot think of that were just such a part of who he was when he was first born. But I do know one thing: I'm skipping back over to my own blog to post all the things I DO remember so that I won't lose them by the time he's 5. Or 10. Or 28.

Perfect Post indeed.