More and more, as time goes on, I find myself choosing to laugh and grab my Canon, instead of panicking and grabbing a sponge (sorry, mom).
And it's not just about messes. It's in the red minivan, when my husband turns on "500 Miles" by the Proclaimers, and we belt out the lyrics for the 8th time, while our 2 year old yells "AGAIN" in the back seat. It's allowing my bathroom to turn into the Splash Zone from Sea World during bath time. It's singing a round of "Row Row Row Your Boat" for the kids with The Aristocrats after rehearsal instead of pushing bed time.
My kids are only 2 and a half, and 1, but I'm already realizing how quickly time passes, and how precious these little moments with them are. Sitting on a deck, in the glow of citronella candles the other day, I was trying to explain to an old friend how much I love writing this blog, and teaching a class in writing memoirs, because they allow reflection on the moments that have shaped me as a person. It means putting down on paper (or computer, as I'm a much faster typist and have horrendous handwriting) the parts of life that have made me who I am.
Maybe it's because I lost my dad when I was a teenager, and missed out on hearing his stories, or maybe it's just because I'm a nostalgic sap with a ridiculous memory, but I enjoy reminiscing. I can go back in my head and smell the grass during a rainstorm when I was 19, and how "She Talks To Angels" was stuck in my head (the inspiration behind a number of heartwrenchingly mediocre poems), or taste the zeppoles my great-grandmother made, covered in honey and powdered sugar. I can recall, with astute clarity, conversations from 15 years ago, and what song was on the radio when they happened.
What I'm realizing more and more is that these stories also shape the people around me- especially my children. Laughter leads to the best recollections, and I am trying to give my children as many laughing memories as I can. So when a backyard wiffle ball game takes a brief hiatus for a chorus of the ABC's, I'll gladly join in. My daughters may not remember the center fielder waving his arms to conduct the rest of us, and that they were standing, clapping their hands and giggling in the waning sunlight, but I will, and I'll be sure to tell them all about it.
