“Mommy! Take my picture!” Anders straightens his cape—blue with a red lightning bolt—as he leaps from the top of a stack of cushions to the ground in front of my chair. I look up seconds after he lands.
“Nice jump!” I say.
“Did you get it?” He scrambles to his feet and reaches for my phone.
“A picture of my super huge jump.”
“Sorry bud,” I say, “I missed it.”
“But Moooooom, how will I ever remember?” His face, barely visible behind the red superhero mask, crumples.
I smile and ruffle his hair. “You will.”
This doesn’t satisfy him. I dutifully raise my phone for multiple subsequent jumps, and we finally manage to get one on film. The moment is preserved. But later that night, as I fold laundry by the light of the Christmas tree, his question sticks with me.
How will I remember?
It seems innately human: this desire to record the moments of our lives. I make yearly family photo yearbooks. I write down funny things my kids say in an Evernote document. I make notes on my Google calendar when milestones are reached—first words, first steps, first time they slept through the night. I track sickness and sentences and clothing sizes. I try to capture moments and memories in my words on social media. My phone currently holds 21,397 photos and 2,685 videos, and the numbers keep growing.
But my recordkeeping doesn’t stop there.
I’m also obsessed with the Timehop app on my phone. This magical little bit of technology shows me photos I took or posted on this day going back one, two, or even 15 years (thanks to being in the very first wave of Facebook users in 2004). Each picture represents a memory, a literal snapshot in time. The photos from college are cringe-worthy: questionable hairstyles, long-forgotten frenemies, and way too much white girl duck face. The photos and videos of my kids cut right through my heart.
The app helps me remember trips, milestones, and even the mundane aspects of our life. All of the puzzle pieces come together to tell the story of our family. The passage of time can be baffling. A child who’s speaking in full sentences today was just starting to babble last year. Last year’s amorphous newborn is this year’s opinionated toddler. A kid who once couldn’t put on his own shoes is now picking out his outfits. These seismic changes give me the distinct impression that time is slipping away.
Even on our most exhausting days, I pull out my phone when I crawl into bed and scroll through dozens of photos and videos. “You were just with them!” Kyle laughs.
“I know. But I miss them already,” I say.
I often can’t wait until my kids are in bed. Yet, faced with fond nostalgia, my heart aches at their absence.
When it comes to documenting our life, I feel like I’m trying to hold water in my hands. I clutch the wispy memories tightly, terrified they will fade, rip at the edges, or pour right through my fingers. I overcompensate and over-correct in the panicked hope that I won’t forget.
As I reflect on 2019, I feel the exquisite weight of this life. Last year we were barely out of the newborn fog. This year we have three kids who feed themselves, sleep consistently through the night, and are capable (though not always willing) of playing on their own. We’ve come so far. It’s only by stepping back that I truly appreciate this.
My Instagram grid from the past twelve months shows trips to the beach, family walks on the dairy, kids hugging in matching pajamas, and smiling faces. Life here, at least, looks rosy. But that’s not the whole story. These photos don’t show the bitter fights that were waged out of sheer exhaustion. They don’t show the countless nights I went to bed alone. They don’t show the unyielding stress Kyle felt every day he wasn’t able to plant or chop corn. They don’t show crippling anxiety or the times I yelled, lost my patience, or failed to show grace to my kids.
I don’t want to remember life through a quixotic haze, but I am grateful for how memories soften and intertwine as we gain more perspective. A life is the sum of many parts.
In 2020, I want to balance nostalgia and being present. I don’t want to stop taking pictures, making notes, or basking in memories. But I also don’t want to forget to be in the moments as I’m actually living them. I want to feel it all—the splashy colors, messy emotions, and fleeting moments—deep in the marrow of my bones.
At the end of the year (and my life, actually), I want there to be one predominant thought: “We were together. I forget the rest.” This quote from Walt Whitman has always been one of my favorites. It’s not about taking thousands of photos or remembering every single moment.
It’s about the people living and breathing alongside me. It’s about the way I want my family to feel when they look back on our life.
Even if the iCloud crashes and my Google Drive implodes, we were here. We laughed and loved and walked side-by-side.
We were together. I forget the rest.
This post was created as part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to read the next post in this series “2019.”