We spent much of yesterday cozied up in our jammies. We surrounded ourselves with various books, the Sunday paper, the iPad, and magazines. The dog curled up at my feet, and Lenny Kravitz played on the iPod. The day was gloomy and cold, a departure from the sunny spring-like days we had been enjoying. Mac Daddy kept my coffee mug filled, and the boys played or read contentedly with nary a bicker within earshot. It’s days like these that we stop to exhale. We bask in each other’s company with no schedule or to-do lists taunting us.
These days are too few and far between…
In the midst of our lazy day of delight Mac Daddy thought it would be fun to watch some old family movies. It pains me to watch these because I am reminded of what a bandit Time is. She steals our babies and turns them into big boys before we get a chance to wrap ourselves up in the memories that fade like a distant siren. I get particularly sad because all of Bird’s first year is in a dump somewhere, stolen and discarded by a thug. We had all his first year tapes and video camera with us on a trip to Chicago just after my baby boy turned one. We had videotaped every guest at his first birthday party sharing a wish for him when he turned 18. My plan was to add this to his time capsule, locked away in the attic for his 18th birthday. We brought the camera to videotape Mac Daddy’s family sharing their sentiments since they were unable to join us in North Carolina for Bird’s birthday festivities. Mac Daddy innocently left the camera bag in the back seat of the rental car while we were visiting friends on their quiet, tree lined street that could have passed for a Hollywood set. We came out to find the back window shattered and shards of glass strewn on our baby’s carseat. The video camera was gone.
I sobbed, not for the camera, but for the memories that would fade to a misty gray over time. I needed those voices and words and people to jog my future memory. The sound of his baby laughter is gone. I needed to hear my first baby’s coos and see him toddle his first steps. I needed to hear his baby voice call Mama. Now I must rely on my memory to hear his tiny voice and silly way he couldn’t pronounce umbrella. I don’t have any recording of his first unsure steps in those white lace up leather shoes. I do have the shoes, and I swear when I hold them I can see my baby Bird walk.
We have all these memories for Deal. I don’t dare let Mac Daddy leave anything in the car anymore, and I understand the value of copies and backups. I can see and hear Deal’s baby laugh and close my eyes to pretend it is also Bird I hear. Memories are all we have. I’m going to spend more time making sure ours are happy ones.
Schedules and to do lists be damned.