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Last week while I was cleaning out some old boxes, I came across my 5th grade class picture. I laughed at the clothes, the hair and the fact that we all thought we looked absolutely wonderful. Of course this gave my children a wonderful opportunity to laugh at their mom. "You were so young!" and "What were you thinking with that hair?!" I took the jokes in stride. Mainly because I was thinking comments along those same lines. But more importantly, I loved that I could give my kids a glimpse into the person that existed long before they were even a glimmer in my eye. Yes! I actually was a kid once. And, yes, I did make bad hair decisions. It was fun to give them that brief moment of Life Before Mom Was Mom.
In one of those bizarre twists of fate, when I was doing research online for an article I am writing, I came across a picture of my own mother. A picture of my own Mom's 5th grade class. When I saw it, my heart clenched. Mom. Right there in black and white. I didn't need the names below it to identify her. It was Mom. But an 11 year old version of her. I stared so hard at the picture looking for the woman she would become. Looking for the woman I knew. I saw her. In the way she smiled. I saw that same look of mischief in her eyes that she held until the day she passed away. I found a moment captured of Mom before she was Mom. And I cried. And laughed. And cried some more.
Here was a little girl whose biggest worry was recess and boys who probably had cooties. This girl didn't know that she would grow up to marry her soul mate and have a story book marriage that lasted 45 amazing years until she drew her last breath. Here was a little girl who had no idea she would have three children who worshiped the ground she walked on and looked up to her as a role model. She didn't know she would have five grandchildren who heard stories about her life as a child and laugh at the mischief she always seemed to find herself a part of. This girl was busy living her life as a child. Her life was just about the business of childhood and growing up. But her eyes? They were the same eyes that saw me through love, heartache, childbirth and even her own death. I could never mistake those eyes. Even on my 5th grade Mom.
I thought about it all day long. I thought about how incredible it was to find this picture and get a glimpse of a girl who in the photo is actually younger than two of my own children are today. I had to ask myself: What memories am I leaving for my children?
I will admit that I take many, many pictures of my kids. Thousands. But of myself? So few. Partially because I am behind the lens, but more so because I am self-conscious of how I look on film. But will that matter in 50 years? When my own children want to see pictures of their own Mom way back when she was young and they were growing up, will they find enough to fill that void after I am gone? Will they get a glimpse of a young Mom who loved life and lived every day thankful for her family or will they have to dig to find pictures because their own Mom wouldn't allow pictures to be taken?
What memories am I handing down to my children? I immediately called my Dad and told him to find as many pictures of me growing up as he could and box them up for me. I asked him to find pictures of his own childhood, more of Mom's childhood and as many as he would part with of my own. It is history. Bad hair? History. Bad clothing choices? History. Braces and acne? History. All things that will one day make my children sit back and cry and
