I often wonder how my children will remember me.
Friends have shared memories of how they are reminded of their mother when they smell a certain dish. Even how certain kitchens trigger emotions because most the memories they have was of their mother in the kitchen.
It’s not unheard of to bond over food, but this goes beyond that. These memories bring them right back to the moment, like their mother was right in front of them doing what they do best. And that was captured in time.
Some people remember their mothers dirty fingernails from digging in garden dirt for hours.
Some people remember waking with the sun and stealing a few glimpses of their mother doing Sun Salutations to greet the day.
Some people remember not so nice things, too. Like drinking, neglect, anger.
Being a multi-passionate person has its advantages, I know a little bit about a wide range of stuff so i can be helpful with schoolwork and life in general. But with that multi-passion, I tend to juggle a lot of projects and streams of income. Which can make for a very distracted mama if I’m not careful.
Its true I’m not a wiz in the kitchen. I do OK, but I, for the most part, can’t wait to get out of the kitchen. Most likely because I don’t want to burn myself again.
Digging in a garden has its appeal but keeping another living thing alive is just too much pressure. I’m cool with the end result and you know, food but, dirt under my fingernails isn’t my thing. (Not yet anyway.)
I love yoga, but I am a night owl by nature. Greeting the sun is on my do-gooder wish list and I have seen the sun come up a time or two. But it’s more accurate to say I’ve sort of half-heartedly waved and mumbled something to the sun on my way to bed.
So what will my kids remember when they think of me?
I hope they remember someone full of life. Someone who was funny and would go to bat for them no matter what. I want them to remember my face while I listened to them. I hope they remember someone who wasn’t afraid to play soccer with “the boys, mama” and how we went roller skating every Saturday. Or how we looked forward to their physical so we could scribble all over the “table-paper” before Doc came in. (That’s what it’s there for right?)
I pray they keep the memories of us painting masterpieces together safely tucked away – just like I do.
What do you remember about your mother?