Ahhhh, memories

I recently had a conversation with a co-worker whose daughter is having a hard time transitioning from the bottle to the sippy cup.  She paused her story to ask, “Did you have any of these issues with your son at that age?”  I opened my mouth to answer and then caught myself instead saying, “Ummm…well, let me think…”  As I searched my brain to confirm how the de-bottling phase had gone I realized I didn’t remember exactly when we first started to introduce a cup.  It was around six months, right?  Or maybe eight?  Did we put water in it or breast milk?  When was the first time he had water?  We started with one of those soft-top cups, right?  For how long?  Surely this is written down somewhere…  What I do remember is that we thankfully had very few problems, so I answered something vague to this general effect. 

The discussion, however, stayed on my mind for a good portion of the day.  How could I not remember the details surrounding something that seemed so significant at the time?  Such a milestone.  I know there are other details that are getting fuzzy until I see a picture from that particular stage to jog my memory or watch an old baby video.  Sure, I do in fact have a lot of these things written in my son’s baby book (read: a well-intentioned spiral notebook full of hand-scrawled notes and stuffed with random pictures and scrapbook paper…for when I have free time).  But there is only so much that we can convey with words.  I found myself panicking that I would lose the experiences – what it really felt like when my son was a baby. 

How is it possible that the last two years have flashed by like lightning, and yet I can’t remember the details of something that feels like yesterday?  How can something at once seem so recent and so far in the past?  If I’m losing details now, what will it be like when my children are teenagers?  Will I remember what it was like to have a baby at all?  I’m not entirely sure why, but this thought scared me.  A lot.  It’s probably due in large part to the fact that the baby stage represents a time when we are everything to our children.  They rarely leave our arms, let alone our sight.  And while that can be exhausting, there is also something gratifying about being needed in that way, in giving yourself completely to the needs of another human being whom you love more than your own life.  It’s powerful stuff.

The older my son gets the more independence he gains.  And as I celebrate his accomplishments and enjoy the lightening of my load, I also mourn the end of his babyhood.  Although I can never hope to remember every single detail of every day of that period, I’m trying to convince myself that’s okay.  First, it’s simply not reasonable or possible to catalog every moment of my life in that way.  As I often need to, I keep reminding myself I’m human.  But more importantly, as I think back to the things I do remember, I’m convinced I’m holding on to the right memories – the ones that will truly help me recall an experience rather than the mechanics of growing up.

I remember exactly how my son looked when they first placed him on my chest, and that the first thing I said after he was born was a tearful, “He’s so perfect.”  And he really, really was.  I remember looking into my husband’s eyes and feeling like my entire world was in that room.  Those first moments are etched in my brain, and I am beyond thankful for that memory. 

I remember the warmth of that tiny little heater’s body on mine as he slept away my maternity leave.  I remember nuzzling close to his face so I could take in the sweet scent of baby breath (before they have teeth and start eating food, they smell SO good!  All. The. Time.).  I remember the peaceful silence of our house at 3 am as I nursed my son and quietly rocked him back to sleep. 

I remember the sound of his little voice when he first discovered he could jabber.  I remember the night we cheered him on as he first started to crawl, and the look of triumph on his face the day he took his first steps.

So while I may not be able to recall exactly how long we spent on mashed avocado before adding pea puree (which I assure you is written down), I have the good stuff on lock.  Sounds, smells, and emotions paint the best picture of that first year.  And they do a better job than any baby book could – whether it is the most beautiful scrapbook or a dog-eared notebook with an ultrasound photo spilling out the side.