Making Memories

James and I lay snuggled inside a blanket on the grass.  The sunlight filtered through the fabric to illuminate our faces.  I looked at him and saw, not the tall slender six year old he has become, with long fingers and big knuckles, adult teeth crowding the tiny baby teeth in his mouth, but the chubby cheeks and big, watchful eyes of my baby.  They're still in there, although that face is growing and changing and becoming more mature.  When I look at him, I remember.  I remember long nights and quiet cries that seemed to fill our entire half of the duplex.  I remember awkward steps and cuts and bruises and even louder cries that turned into determination to master the new skills.  I remember the clinging hugs during evaluations and the reports and forms that attempted to quantify this child who refuses to fit on a piece of paper. 

I wonder what he will remember of these years.  Will he remember when I was there or the times I wasn't?  Will he remember love and gentle touches, or will he remember anger and red marks on his bottom?  Will he remember looking at me through tear-filled eyes, and will the image be calm and steady or irritated and unpredictable?  Will he remember the trips we take, whether down the street to the playground or across the country on a plane?  Will he remember the stories we read?  Will he remember the early mornings and the middle of the night cuddles?  Will he remember when we brought home babies and called them brothers?  Will he remember the summer nights when we lay on the lawn and watched the stars in the sky?

Will his memories be full of love that sustains him through the difficulties of life, and will they remind him that there is always a place where he is welcome and safe?  Will he share them with others, will he seek to experience them again from the role of a parent?  Will Mother's Day and Father's Day be a time when he thinks fondly of his childhood and calls up special memories, or will it be a time to avoid us?

I think we all hope that the good outweighs the bad, and the children grow up to be healthy and stable and secure.  That they tell others about the wonderful people who raised them, and sing our praises, and even the moments of discipline and consequences are looked at with appreciation.  And I hope that I can remember snuggling inside a blanket as the sunlight filters through the fabric.