The most happy memory I have of my mother was of her in a white crochet dress, long thick auburn hair swinging back and forth, her milk chocolate colored skin glistening with suntan oil—bare feet dancing with abandon to Earth, Wind, & Fire. It is this picture that I hold onto, clenched to my heart–the cover of my memory album of *Her*.
As a mother; I hope that my own children have many happier memories of their childhood. I may seem hippy-dippy to friends and family, but I am constantly strategizing on how to strike the perfect balance of loving, teaching, and guiding them–all while trying to create beautiful memories. My only mommy credentials are drawn from surviving a dire childhood, learning how to love and trust— basically rebuilding myself from the ground up.
Recently, my four year old daughter, Kien, walked into my room and asked me “What are you doing?” ” I’m writing a story,” I said. She sat down next to me, grabbed my pen and notebook, and started scribbling. “What are you doing?” I asked–smiling because I already knew the answer.”I’m writing my story.” she says–as she smiles up at me with the most beautiful, ridiculous grin.”I’m like mommy.”
Moments like these are a reminder that my life’s highs and lows are etched into my children’s collective memory bank- they will start filing their own good and bad pictures.
Will one fond memory be of me in a bikini, smiling and holding them close—or the same mental picture haunting them because they hated me wearing a bikini?
What about the dinners I lovingly prepare?
Will they remember me cooking in the kitchen, dancing to Sonos— or will they cringe because they secretly wanted me to cook like other moms without the dancing, and maybe they hated my cooking?
I just don’t know– I’m still building my parenting repertoire.
If there is one thing that does come with my credentials, it is that I always let them know how much I love and appreciate their uniqueness. They are great teachers for my mommy-building.
