Preserve Your Memories

Yesterday, I was going to write a post.  It was going to be lighthearted, and would describe the rabbit hole I fell down while looking at old photos of the boys, ending up watching old home videos and crying in the manner of Clark Griswold locked in the attic.  “Mama go yo-yoga!” impossibly chubby, not quite two year old Jake exclaimed into the camera.  “Ha ha.  Jake a silly billy.”  Mark, climbing up a slide ladder at the playground, said “Mama, you meet me at other side, okay?” and my own voice answered him that yes, I would.  Later that evening I described the videos to my husband, tearfully saying “I should have enjoyed it more!”  He assured me that I DID enjoy it, to which I answered, irrationally, “But I should have enjoyed EVERY SECOND.”

Yesterday I was out all day until it was time to pick the boys up from school, early dismissal Friday.  I picked them up and took them to get their haircuts: their hair was brushing the tops of their ears, like total hippies.  While they sat in the chairs, getting the number three, finger length on top, I thought about the post I would write.  I would describe my heart aching with nostalgia from watching those videos, while appreciating that I could stand to the side at Beaners’, watching them calmly and like normal people getting their hair cut, happy that they never want to play in the germ-and-urine infested ball pit anymore.  The boys collected their lollipops and I paid for the haircuts.  We went home.  I sat down at the computer to write my post.

But first, I decided to take a look at the news.

I shut down my computer, putting it away without writing a word.  I called the boys upstairs and we watched Christmas Vacation together, the first time for them.  I smiled at them laughing hysterically at Clark falling off the roof and punching the plastic light-up Santa in the face.  I made them their favourite dinner – chicken fingers and oven fries – and I made myself my favourite dinner – Greek salad and pitas.  I allowed the boys to play Wii after dinner and we read a chapter of On The Banks of Plum Creek.  I drank three glasses of wine and went to bed.

It was a pleasant, and very ordinary, Friday.  But my heart ached for the people who would give anything for such an ordinary day.  My heart ached for the people who would fall down the rabbit hole looking at old photos and home videos, knowing that those old photos and home videos was all that was left them.