A few days ago, I read an article about a mom who is taking photos of her children every single day of quarantine as a “creative project” and as a time capsule, of sorts. She lamented that she wanted to remember exactly who her kids were, what they looked like, and how parenting them felt at this moment in history. I found the sentiment a worthy and logical one. You know, since the days are long and the years are short or so they say whomever they are. I agree that I want my kids to have evidence of the various significant cultural occasions over the course of their childhood though I’d love if they’d forget that time when everything was perpetually fucked because we elected a tweeting tyrant into office but I digress.
I definitely want to remember my kids at different points in their lives since the tiny details and memories tend to get fuzzy and less distinct with time. But right now, specifically? When we’re all just trying to survive and not throat punch each other and stay healthy? Nah, I don’t really want to remember that thankyouverymuch. Mostly, thought, I don’t want to have evidence of ME during this chapter of our lives. I don’t want to remember myself at my very worst, when I felt the most lost, unattractive, purposeless, unproductive, anxious, helpless, sad, and sometimes broken beyond repair and occasionally unworthy of it. Additionally, I sure as shit don’t want to remember what parenting feels like during this bullshit. My maternal skills have been less than exceptional, my patience paper thin. Also of note were the bi-polar II diagnosis during week two and the painstaking process of adjusting to my new medicine regimen to tame the crazy— both an absolute delight for my family, I’m sure of it. Add my overall general aversion to most people and let’s just say that we’ve got ourselves a winning combination for Mom of the Fucking Year.
But I took the damn photos. Because of course. Though I have never been overly sentimental about things (I LOVE throwing out all of their baby crap), even I have the wherewithal to know that I’ll never regret having photographic evidence of their innocence. I’'ll cherish having confirmation that there was a time not too long ago when they told me I was their best friend and declared me the best ass wiper in the family and made hundreds upon hundreds of ineligible crafts and cards professing their love and affection for their mama. I may not want to remember myself right now but I want to remember them in very fine detail forever.
They’re changing and growing so quickly and I’d be lying if I say that it isn’t hard for me to keep up. Mo turned 8 last week and Edie turned 5 the week prior. Knox is two-ish and a complete hell raiser. I swear that child wakes up every morning thinking, alright, people. what shit can I fuck up today?! how many times I can get Mom to do that thing where she turns away from me and mumbles bad words under her breath? Their three souls are the only things I can’t imagine living without. As hard as it’s been mothering them— pandemic or not— my heart aches at the thought of them one day being too big (read: uninterested or embarrassed) to sit on my lap to read a book or play with toy trucks on the floor or sitting together to paint watercolor portraits of each other because we have so much time to do it. The last eight weeks have been a plot twist but they’ve also been a gift of time— time I’d otherwise be busy with all the things or worrying about something that won’t actually matter in ten years or even a month from now.
I haven’t always gotten it right and I will continue to get it wrong as we trudge along through the years ahead. We’ve got puberty, middle and high school, broken hearts, broken curfews, and butting heads over what constitutes an appropriate length of skirt to look forward to which will provide ample opportunities to suck. Right now, though, I just want to remember their sweet faces with their smirks and cheesy grins. Their cheeky poses that are so them and the six arms I had to twist to even get a photo that wasn’t blurry from their movement. I don’t want to remember the last sixty days but I absolutely want to remember them as they are right now. Imperfect, stubborn, and a source of constant love and forgiveness that has to shake me out of even my darkest moments.
Times are shitty and I think we’d all agree that navigating through such depths of shit requires the kind of effort worthy of a pedestal and shiny medal around the neck. I’d settle for a new pair of shoes but a medal works, too. The fact is that no parent is perfect; and in case there are still parents out there who still strive for such arbitrary status in 2020, this global pandemic said “hold my beer” and made damn sure to prove that perfect, we inarguably are not. And while we struggle to understand our lives as we now know it, admits the chaos, our children make it an easy decision to do the hard things, to be hopeful, to remember what’s important and what is merely an inconvenience. They encourage perspective when we’re wallowing in our own pity party. It’s all for them. Even when we don’t want it to be. Even when we wish we didn’t have to be strong, we somehow find our way.
Parenting is notoriously complicated but loving Marlo, Edie, and Knox, has always made perfect sense. THAT is something I find worth remembering.