How to hold onto a memory
special moments that come and go
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Is the memory captured in the photo of him sobbing into his smash cake and refusing even one lick? Or in the video of everyone singing while he holds a bottle in his mouth with one hand and moves the other pointer finger closer and closer to the candle’s flickering flame?
Will I remember the sound of the ice melting in coolers for days after all the guests left?
We tasted it for a few days after in chocolate and vanilla cupcakes dusted with red and blue sprinkles made by Grandmom. Leftover chicken salad sliders from a chef best friend who made a spread to remember. Now, the food is long gone. So now what?
How do we hold onto a memory of a day when the breeze hit just right, the humidity took a little break, the people we love gathered in our backyard to wish our son a happy first birthday? (Or rather, pat us on the back to say, Congrats, you survived!)
Our little July 5th firecracker, born five weeks early with quite the spark of excitement. (Now that’s a day that I’ll always remember.)
According to Google, people have always told stories to keep memories alive.
I ask my husband if he can feel it, the buzz in the air after the last guest leaves. The lush green backyard canopied with trees glows at golden hour as my husband and I sip leftover wine spritzers on the back porch.
Do you feel it? Do you feel like everyone’s still here?
Maybe I’m tired and loopy, but it feels like friends and cousins and aunts and uncles and grandparents are all still here in the gentle breeze, in the fading sun, in the spilled bubbles on the sticky table.
“I’m never quite sure what to do after days like this,” my husband says. I understand. The adrenaline fades. We try to sit still, relax and reflect on a day that came and went.
The tents are collapsed and the shapes of the shadows in the grass have changed. The blue and white platters are piled in the sink, waiting for someone to rinse and scrub forgotten crumbs. A plaid collared onesie is slung over the dirty hamper.
We rip off wrapping paper and our son ruffles tissue paper to get to the new trucks and PJs and books and tiny socks. All the new toys are singing and lighting up at once.
The banner with stars for each monthly photo will stay hung across the breakfast nook mirror for a while, I’m sure. (Oh, how he grew. Do I even remember that tiny squeaking baby with wrinkles in months 1 and 2?)
The unused patriotic plates will stay stacked with the “1” candle smeared with icing.
The floors will stay sticky for a while because we’re tired, and also because, we don’t want it all to end.
We remember all the things we forgot: music from the portable speakers, still charging in the office. The video of one-second a day for the last 365 days that we had planned to loop on the TV while everyone filled up their plates. The firecracker popsicles (which we’ll now be eating from the freezer for months to come.)
You plan a first birthday party for 9 months plus 12 months and you anticipate the joy of celebrating motherhood with everyone you love.
And then it comes and goes in a blink.
The screen door won’t slam closed, the backyard sits empty, the kiddie pool with beach balls deflated.
All the red, white, and blue balloons are still floating, for now. By tomorrow they’ll fall to the floor.
Maybe it’s not the details that matter, it’s not the photos or the videos or the list of everything we wish we had remembered. It’s not how many were invited or the decorations we bought or how many toilets we scrubbed to get ready.
It’s the feeling of the memories that linger in the air long after everyone’s gone.
Give these a try…
We might have forgotten to share our video at our son’s first birthday party, but I’m so glad that I took the time to make the video throughout his first year. It’s something I’ll treasure forever. Download the 1 Second Everyday app to make your video—it’s so easy and you can go back to add in photos or video clips from each day.
If you know me, you know I’m a journal pusher. How do we hold onto a memory? Write it down. Even if you’re “not a writer” (which I don’t think I actually believe is true of anyone), add the date at the top and write down a few small details from a special event to help you remember the feeling of the day. Backyard tents, plaid collared onesie, cotton tablecloth with stars and stripes, chocolate and vanilla cupcakes, melting ice.
Share Stuff Moms Google! In a lot of ways, this essay feels like what I’m trying to do here with SMG: first, we search, “how to hold onto a memory” because the first year has come and gone in a blur and there’s so much we want to remember forever. We might find practical solutions like journals and video apps and baby books (which I totally failed on, BTW…), but there are deeper questions hiding behind that late-night search. How do we freeze time? Will my son ask to hear the story of his first birthday when I’m old and gray? When do I tell him that the first year felt impossibly hard to survive, and yet, like the greatest gift of a lifetime?
“You start with a wisp of a memory, or some detail that won’t let you be. You write, you cross out. You write again, revise, feel like giving up. What pulls you through? Curiosity.”
-Abigail Thomas, What Comes Next and How to Like It