It became clear to me today when I was reminiscing about my own childhood memories. I was surprised at all the little things I remembered. The sounds of weekend football on the tv, the way my dad would sit in his recliner as he intently watched the game, the feel of sun-baked clean laundry as items were folded on the dining room table, the rustling sounds of fall leaves, the "butterfly in the stomach" sensations for much anticipated events, the smells of homemade pizza and 7-up (which was a huge treat), the softness of my mom's face as goodnight kisses were exchanged, the smell of her hand lotion (Pacquin's -- do they even make that anymore?), the smell of Old Spice aftershave mixed with cigarettes (Camels, unfiltered) on my dad. I remember it all and more. These are the memories of home, family, and, most of all, love. Childhood memories, youth memories, college memories, early marriage memories ... and then it stops. Because I became a mom.
Someone told me that we were so busy being moms that we did not have time to make memories. I thought about that for a long time but I have to disagree. We were making memories, it's just that the memories we were making were not for us. Ironically, I remember the big things. It's the little things that I don't remember. But maybe it's not for me to remember the little things...maybe the little things that I don't remember are the very things that my girls will remember the most.
And years from now, when they are reminiscing, I hope that they remember all the little things. I hope that they remember feelings of home, memories of family, and most of all, love. And if that's all that they can remember, then I did my job as a mom. For it's really the little things that mean the most.