I want to remember waking before the alarm, the way it always feels like I won a prize if I rise before its noise. The quiet in the dark morning, only Duke our dog nodding to me as I quietly leave to work out.
I want to remember that at 42, still as always discontent with so much about myself physically, I am strong and healthy with so much to be grateful for despite my own discontent. I want to remember the way Kathy and I laugh on our way to and from the gym, and how good it is to have a friend to meet. Without her, the alarm clock would surely win.
I want to remember even the rush, the stress to get five people fed and dressed, the way Brian and I pass the baton of lunch-making so he can get in the shower, the last-minute chaos of Aidan discovering/remembering it’s his turn to fill the class “estimation” box two minutes before his bus arrives, the way Sean combs his own hair, and Nolan’s joy as we choose pants instead of shorts for the first time in months and discover they are all at least two inches too short.
I want to remember finding scraps of paper and scissors on every flat surface during this season of Origami that has taken over our home. Thank you very much, Tom Angelberger. Aidan asking me to scan in his own precise directions for his version of Origami Yoda---the way he did this with more care, neatness and completeness because it was an assignment born of his own mind and heart than he ever would apply to a school assignment. I want to remember the way he smiled, teasing me that he was making something just for me, and hours later presented me with my own Han Solo.
I want to remember time alone with Duke, driving me insane one minute as his sticks his nose over my hand on the keyboard, as if to say, “wouldn’t you rather play outside?” and grateful for him the next, as I kick his soccer ball across the yard and watch him pounce on it, and then bring it back to me with his tail wagging and his head held high, king of the ball once again.
I want to remember Brian calling, moving up our lunch time, and this rare respite hour in our lives, three days a week when Nolie is at preschool and we have time to eat alone together, talk uninterrupted, finish our sentences.
I want to remember the mountains’ aspen glowing in the distance, the shock of snow on the peaks, the smell of long-awaited rain on the sidewalk, Nolan’s proud cup filled with rolly pollies and the bounty he brings home from school---last week a sailboat he made and painted himself with “real tools,” then a felt mouse he filled with rice, yesterday homemade apple sauce with cinnamon, and today a silkie he dyed with marigolds, especially for his dad.
I want for so much, for things big and small. For a piano, for an empty inbox, for our basement to be magically finished. For our children to grow up strong and well-loved, for a peace-filled world to send them into, and always, for more time---time to read, to explore, to spend with my dad, to be alone. But mostly, I want to remember the light streaming in and how lovely things are, how surrounded I am by love. Not only to remember, but to see it here and now while it is right in front of me and not behind or far in the future.
This post was inspired by Katrina Kenison’s, whose was inspired by Lindsey’s from A Design So Vast, who based hers on Ali Edwards, who has inspires my memory-keeping and blogging from day one. She’s hosting a link party to those who took up her challenge to journal about what’s happening in your life today.