Memories

I have very few authentic memories from the time that we lived in Maine. I have several that have been constructed as a result of hearing stories about that time period and looking at pictures. Memories like my reaction when my mom told us that all three triplets were boys (my older brothers laughed at me because they knew I wanted a baby sister and so I got angry and stomped off to my bedroom). Or playing hockey in the downstairs hallway with the plastic utensils and fruit from my kitchen set (the pink spatula was the coveted tool of choice and the orange was the best "puck"). Or sitting on the warm dirt in our garden eating peas straight off of the plant. Though I know these stories backwards and forwards, I can never be totally sure whether or not I remember them or if the fleeting images are a result of hearing those with more mature memories recount the tales.

But I do remember a few things.

I remember the hill outside of my nursery school that seemed huge to my four-year-old self.

I remember how icy the hardwood floor in my bedroom felt under my little toes on a cold winter morning.

I remember playing with the dress up clothes sent to me by my grandmother and feeling so grown up in the flowing dresses and sophisticated hats.

I remember eating waffles for breakfast one morning when my brother had some friends over. My mom wouldn't let me cut my own waffles and I was so angry because it made me look like a baby in front of the big boys.

The most vivid memory that I can recall right now is that of the hour or so before my parents came home with the new babies. I was at home with my grandma and my two older brothers. Somebody had bought a birth announcement banner that proudly proclaimed "It's a Boy!" and so we added "and a Boy and a Boy!" and then hung it in our front window. I remember wanting to look pretty when my new baby brothers came home for the first time, so I grabbed a round brush from the bathroom counter and tried to brush out the tangles in my blonde, blonde hair. Somehow I ended up getting the brush stuck. I was horrified, both because I thought my grandma was going to be mad at me (it may have been her brush...of that I'm not quite certain) and because the thought of my three-day old brothers seeing me with a brush stuck in my hair was absolutely traumatizing and mortifying. How could they take their older sister seriously if she couldn't even brush her hair? Of course this was a silly thing to be worried about, but my four-year-old brain didn't know that. Luckily my grandma was able to coax my hair out of the brush and fix the knot of tangled hair before my parents came home with the boys. And that's where my memory ends, oddly enough. I have no recollection of the babies actually coming home.

I wish that I remembered more. Not just about my life in Maine, but about my life in general. I think that is one of the reasons that I write so much. In addition to my frequent posts here, I also am an avid journal writer. I'm addicted. I am so afraid that someday I will look back and not remember the things that made me happy or sad or angry. I'm sure that I'll remember the big, important, life-changing moments, but life is about more than just those moments. At the end of the day, it's the collection of hundreds of tiny details that don't seem to matter that truly make up who you are and how you live your life.

I want to remember those things, too.