You Don't Get to Choose Their Memories

When my oldest children were babies, a friend once told me "you don't get to choose the things they'll remember."  I've thought about that a lot since then, and how it translates to the memories I want them to have.

I'd love to say that I learned how to can during childhood, sweet memories wrapped around me like apron strings.  I'd love to say that I'm passing down things that were taught to me during long hours standing over a hot stove, or on the porch shucking corn or snapping peas.  But the truth is, for me, these are first generation skills.  There is something truly humbling about trying to learn new things (I don't even want to reveal how many times I had to bake Challah bread before I mastered it!) and having the kids see me try (and fail) has been a good learning experience for us all.

But now, they pour out of their beds in the mornings asking "what smells so good?" when I'm making breakfast.  They line up in the kitchen and wait for samples of jam, each with their own individually colored spoon.  They report gleefully whenever they hear the tell-tale "POP" of a jar that has sealed properly.  They way they burrow under shabby well-loved quilts with a contented sigh, book in one hand and fresh bread in the other is one of my favorite things. 

And as they grow up and venture out into the world, it has been amazing to see the way they pour themselves into what they love, the way they (depending on the child) run headfirst into things that scare them, or the way they size up risk vs reward and then need a gentle nudge to go for it. 

So no, I don't get to choose their memories.  But the ones where their eyes are shining with pride and triumph, side by side with the ones where they're all piled in a tiny living room, the only noise the quiet turning of pages are the ones I hope to keep.