Growing up, remembering was my superpower. Family members described my memory as a steel trap. If you misplaced something, forgot how to spell a word or couldn’t recollect the slightest detail, I was your girl. That is no longer the case. Motherhood has obliterated my memory. I’m constantly forgetting things. I can’t recall what I was doing before so-and-so interrupted to ask me about this or that. I somehow manage to lose my phone and/or my keys at least once a day. Thank goodness for technological luxuries like autopay for credit card bills and autoship for cat litter. I’d be lost without them. I’m also eternally grateful for (and dependent on) emails from the library system alerting me as to which items are due when.


Now that May is here and the flowers have begun to bloom, I’m revisiting the springtime of my youth. Violets, daffodils, and periwinkle take me back to a time of innocence, before I new the pain of loss. Adorable little speedwell blossoms peek out of the grass and call to mind all the hours I spent playing outdoors, picking flowers and imagining fairy villages. For me, there is a sweetness to this time of year. Even more than that, there is a new story of remembering taking shape this spring. I’m learning to put myself in the place of my children. I’m trying (though not always successfully) to acknowledge that it isn’t easy being a child, especially when adults seem to bark orders at you all day long. I’m doing my best to recognize that my son and my daughter are little people with big feelings. She isn’t a horrible creature when she acts out before dinnertime, she’s just “hangry.” He isn’t a hellion who’s trying to ruin my morning. He just wants to wear his monster truck shirt for the third day in a row and doesn’t understand why I won’t let him.

Forget-me-nots are not among the flowers that grew in my yard when I was a child. Though I always adored them, somehow we never planted any. In the last year, I’ve noticed an abundance of forget-me-nots blooming in the region where my family and I now live. Each time I see a delicate spray of those tiny blue eyes looking back at me when I’m driving my son to preschool or walking past our neighbor’s barn, a sense of gentleness washes over me. It’s as if the forget-me-nots are reminding me to think about what really matters. Where I put the keys and whether I remembered to write “raisins” on the grocery list are not crucial. Seeing the big world through the small eyes of my children is.


From me to you, here and now…