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Creating Memories As We Go Through Life

“She will never remember life before her brother,” everybody tells me once I begin to allow the guilt of ending your only child years seep in. “To him, it will always have been this way.”

I know they are right, and their assurances provide me comfort in those quiet moments when I feel the rush of guilt stronger than any other emotion I could recognize. However, the fact that you won’t remember our time before your brother- a time I have cherished more than you can imagine–is more difficult to come to grips with than the fact that this period is coming to an end.

However, I know it’s true that you won’t remember!

The Past Fading Away

You don’t recall the past days when we learned together how to become a twosome; that day when dad’s car disappeared around the corner, off to work and another life while I sobbed holding you, little and fresh, wondering how I had ever endured taking care of you alone for nine unrelentingly lonely hours.

You won’t bear in mind that, with time, we found our groove, you and I, we built a life and a schedule on our own, filling our days with strollers walks and picnics in the park, aquarium excursions and playdates with new friends. You won’t recall the lazy days when we never left home, when we ate pancakes in breakfast and when we snuggled up watching Curious George in our pajamas well into the early afternoon.

You won’t memorize how spoiled you’re and doted upon; mommy and daddy’s first child, Opa and Oma’s first grandchild, the first to crawl and smile and walk as we encouraged you on like maniacs and filled up our memory cards with 8 billion photos of your gummy-smiled, towheaded self.  You won’t bear in mind that all of the clothes and toys and books were yours, for 24 months, you would not have to share them with anybody at all.

You won’t recognize that you made me a mother first, who gave me the most life-affirming, fulfilling job on the planet. That you completely transformed my entire life while you entered, wrinkly and red-faced, gulping lungfuls of fresh air. The moment the nurse put you on my chest I loved you with a ferocity I might have never understood in a thousand lives before you.

Luckily, you won’t recall the learning curve of motherhood and all of the times I royally screwed up this. Like the time, I did not pack an extra outfit, and you had to ride home from the shop in a diaper with snow blanketing the floor outside. Or the time that I forgot about your swimming class with dad on the day you’re an only child.

Or all of the many times I failed you in small ways–losing my patience, allowing you to watch too much TV, prioritizing the incorrect items over my precious time with you–ways your lack of memory will whitewash over, never to be recalled.

No, you won’t recognize these last 24 months, and I know it’s just all well.

Growing Up

You will develop to don’t know anything of life before your brother, that slightly smaller boy who tags along beside you, stealing away the toys you never knew were only yours. You won’t ever bear in mind that you once had daddy and mommy all to yourself, our focus was never split or compromised, which will, fortunately, protect you from jealousy over your brother’s arrival.

It’s a fact that there was a procedure, after all, to our madness once we mapped out our family program and decided to have you both together so close together, even though my guilt keeps me from remembering that.  You won’t remember anything of life before this moment when your brother came into our lives. It is a clean slate, a fresh start for a family of four.

But that’s why I am here: since I will. I remember it all–every second. I will remember for us both.

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