I didn’t think there were that many topics “out there.” Like who’da thought I’d read a post about reusable TP while writing one of my own about salvaging fabric scraps?
Well, it happened again. On my blog feed I read this short and sweet post on the day I’m sorting through son Taylor’s memory box.
Here it is, a collection of stuff I set aside from his childhood to give him when the time is right. You might wonder why I’ve held on to it for 30+ years—T hasn’t been a child for a long, long time. But these things belong to me—not him—and I will pass them along when I’m good and ready.
That time is now, actually, given his upcoming marriage to Beth. (Bless her for finding him and thinking he is her dream come true. He thinks he found her and she made his dream come true.)
But before the hand-off, I’m going to indulge in its wonder. I’m going to remember the days surrounding his birth and how we coped with his constant screaming and what an imp he could be. The joy and interest and challenge he added to our family. I thought parenting was easy until he came along.
Even though T and Beth are going to appreciate my gift of memories to them, there will be no way this picture, for example, will elicit the same emotions it brings up in me. It was my third birth. The first two were druggy and unprepared because I was too trusting in my obstetrician, who just said, “Don’t worry about it; I’ll take care of you.” The outcome had been good and I was blessed with two perfect babes, but the birth experience left much to be desired.
For 38 years notes that T’s dad and I wrote about the experience have been tucked away in a baby book, long forgotten. Imagine my joy in reading those, recognizing some evolution in my memory of that day. Natural childbirth was just coming back in style in the mid ’70s, so the hospital staff felt a little uncomfortable allowing me to walk from the delivery room to the nursery carrying our newborn son.
But a week after we got home the screaming started. Big sister Quinn trying to redeem the situation. Oh, there was an occasional respite, but folks couldn’t be around us very long. It was that bad. Forget finding a babysitter. Church nursery workers resigned. Paul traveled. Ben and Quinn played at their friends’ houses. My friend Cheryle repeatedly recited the mantra: “There are no bad babies.” Booze, we tried booze. For him. Honey on the Nuk.
I learned to do everything with a kid tied to me.
It’s a wonder it isn’t a rag after all that use. But all of those memories come back when I look at this sanity-saving device.
Eventually he got really cute. We got to go on a trip sans kids.
Part of the tangible memories I will pass along.
But can I give this up? Really? Do I have to? Wait…I don’t have to. It still belongs to me.
My AWANA Sparky! (“Awwww” Can we all say it together? “Awwwww!)
I did mention, though, that he was a little turkey.
Our parenting style probably would not pass muster these days.
Count the number of stars in the universe, double it, and that’s how many time-outs we endured. And we also spanked.
But look what else is in the box.
My son let me teach him to sew. He’s probably lost the skill after so many years.
But this lovely creation earned him the praise of two adoring grandparents.
This could go on and on, but you aren’t still reading this. Are you? I think I’ll need to request visiting rights once these treasures are passed to the next generation. Of course that will presume the next owner will actually keep them.