In the future, our kids may not remember this, but we will

My husband said to me this morning as he got the kids ready for a day out, “They’ll never remember. All this stuff we do with them, the places we take them…they won’t remember much of it.”

He is right. They won’t. Not much of it anyway. But still, it matters. Because he and I will remember.

Someday in the future:

As the door opens and our son introduces his first love interest, we will remember a time when all that mattered in his world was his mom and dad. And that how we treated him painted the canvas of how he sees this first relationship.

As our teenage daughter runs up the stairs yelling that we don’t understand her, we will remember that all it took when she was 5 years old was a kiss, a cuddle and soothing words—and that although she has no memory of it, she returns for those actions at age 15.

We will remember as we choose new paint for the hall, that we don’t have to worry about the expensive paint that you can rub handprints from anymore. And I will yearn—I will ache—for a tiny handprint on my wall.

And as I watch my children with their children, I will remember that every trip to the park, every day we bombed them with love, every time we played hide and seek, shaped the map that they walked upon, in their quest to be a good parent themselves.

And as I walk along the beach someday in years to come, my face lined with the creases of my thoughts, my moments of panic, my moments of joy, I will feel the hot sand on the soles of my feet and remember my child walking to the sea with his dad on a day that I thought would last forever, but has now long gone.

I’ll remember.

And my darling child, I will tell you what you don’t remember…

Holding your 8-pound body against my skin in a feeling that would defy what I ever thought possible.

Holding your hand as you took your first steps. Away from me. Towards the world.

Holding your waist as you navigated a pathway that had imaginary crocodiles trying to snap your ankles.

Holding it together when your daddy threw you up into the air, you squealing with delight, me squirming with anxiety.

Holding a book, a breast pump, a new baby and your hand while I read you a story.

Holding back tears watching you filled with pride at your school play.

And you may say, “I don’t remember any of that.”

But I will.

And I watch you transition from child to teenager to adult to parent to home-owner, I will know that what I remember keeps you close to me.

And what you don’t remember, made you, you.

And no matter how old you are, precious little child, should you find yourself up in the air, call us.

Daddy knows how to catch you. Remember?

Mom and Dad

A version of this post was originally published on The Domestic Queen. It has been updated.