Memories

       Memory works in funny ways.  I can recite the Preamble to the Constitution but not always recall what I ate for dinner the evening before.  I can recite phone numbers and license plate numbers but not remember where I last put down my pen.

Thirty-six years on this planet and here are some of my random memories:

My first memory dates back to when I was almost three.  I wore a nightgown, and my brown hair hung down.  I was leaning on the wall behind me as I talked on the phone that hung in the doorway between the dining room and the kitchen.  My Grandma sat on the couch, facing the fireplace.  I know I was speaking to one of my parents.  And I know they were at the hospital, and when they came home, I’d have a baby sister.

I remember attending kindergarten orientation, wearing sandals, and worrying when the teachers announced that students would not be permitted to wear anything but closed-toe shoes to school.  Had I already broken a rule?  (My mom assured me it was okay for that one day).  

I remember a birthday party at Burger King, leaning forward to blow out the candles, and my long hair almost getting singed by the flames.

I remember I wore a skirt the night I first was kissed.

Those are just random snapshots - a few culled from the millions of momentous moments scattered throughout my life.

And now I wonder - what will my son remember?

I am trying to raise my four-year-old son with endless amounts of love along with a sense of fun and responsibility and security.  I am trying to raise my son in a home that is happy.  I am trying to give my son confidence to be who he is.  I am trying to provide my son with a childhood full of memorable moments.

    What will stand out from the millions of moments we share?  I can only hope the good moments will be those he holds on to and carries with him throughout his life.

There is  his first visit to Disneyland.  His Halloween performance at preschool.  A pony ride at Griffith Park, a tricycle ride around the block, picking out the Christmas tree with Daddy, or visiting Grandpa at the golf course.

Or will it be a Sunday outing to Ralphs, an afternoon spent outside watering the plants, or shredding lettuce for our dinner salads?

I don’t know yet, but I’m anxious to find out.  

Readers, I must ask, what is your first memory?  I’d love to have you share in the comments section!