Almost 100% of the time I write about my children and their
milestones... How proud I am of them and how thrilled I am that they are
"mine." I imagine that they will enjoy, someday, reading back on their
extended baby books and think, "this is proof that I was always this
smart/talented/funny/cute/amazing, obviously." That is, if they are anything like my brother, sister and I. Of course we could do no wrong.
But I often realize how much I want to know about my parents when they
were more than parents... about how my Dad played trombone in the band and his and extensive career in Finance beyond what I think of as
"being a Daddy." Or that my mom is fully educated and is the oldest of
four, a junior bowling champion, the Pinterest champion of the world
before Pinterest ever existed, and so much more than "my mom." She was PTA president, girl scout leader
and all around educator to more than just her own children. But even
then, I'm thinking about them as what they did for me, after I was born.
And I ask them, tell me stories about you, and I think they don't know
where I want them to begin. Tell me everything, I think. Everything. But if my kids asked that, where would I even start? My life didn't begin when they were born, but it sure got a whole lot better.
My mom is an amazing genealogist. People ask her to research their
families ... Because once you realize how time consuming it is to do
that kind of research, you see that it is a special skill and not
everyone cares about the history of where you came from. They might care, but
don't have the time or skills do go get it.
When I was in elementary school, I had a project to interview someone,
perhaps it had to be a family member, I don't really remember. But my
mom suggested I interview my Grandma, her mother, and it was recorded on
cassette tape. I happily did it, shyly, because I was extremely shy,
and I was so little (and have a terrible memory, except for images),
that I only remember that I did it. I remember sitting across from her
at the same dining table that my parents still have, in the house they
still own, asking her lame little kid questions and not knowing what a
blessing I was being presented with. I don't recall what I asked or what
she said, only that I loved her.
Now, as an adult, I would love to have that tape and listen to every word.
When I went to college, I was beyond depressed. I had no reason to be. I
signed on to play soccer at a Division 1 school, we went to Germany for
preseason and then won the Big 12 championship that year. I had an
academic scholarship to Baylor University. I had friends. I was not too far from
home. But I was uncontrollably, deeply, devastatingly, clinically
depressed.
One evening I remember being fed up and fleeing to my grandparent's
house in Mexia, to see my Dad's parents, Granny and Pop. I didn't call
ahead. I got in the car, and didn't know where I was going but fled to
the fastest "home" I could, and showed up at their doorstep. They were
thrilled to see me. We talked for a few hours, not about life's
mysteries or my troubles... I don't remember what we said. I remember
sitting in their living room and being happy, but I don't remember their
voices or what they said to me. I only remember my dad telling me later
how much they loved that I came to them. What I wouldn't give now to
relive that night and write down what we talked about.
I remember at my wedding my Grandpa, my mom's dad, being so, so happy to
have that night with me. I remember him saying that it was the best
night he had had in a long time. I recall him staying up with all of us
and not wanting to go home. I remember dancing with him and feeling his
happiness and mine... But I don't remember what we said. I don't
remember our conversations.
What I would give to hear what he has to say again.
I eat up every single moment that I get with my parents. That my parents
get with my kids. I recall complete conversations but only if I type
out every word in my head, because I read it back to myself and that's
how I remember. If I don't do that, and if I don't write it down, I
forget. I have a photographic memory, but it only works if I can SEE IT.
If I hear it, I have to write it in my head or I don't remember it. And
after time passes, I forget it.
That's why I write this blog. I want my kids to know all the ways that I
love them, and I want to remember and relish every second of the good
in my life.
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| Just to re-iterate, this is me, although it looks an awful lot like Claire. |
And in that thought, I realize that I am being somewhat selfish. My kids
may not care what my "life" was like before them until they are 25, but
am I doing them any justice by only recording their lives and not
explaining my own? Am I doing myself an injustice by failing to record
the best moments of my childhood? My parents' childhood? Their parents
and the generations before? Maybe not. But I think i would do them a
great service in helping to give them pieces of where we came from and
where their dad and dad's family came from.
I want to do a better job of that.
I remember very little about my childhood because I had to see it to
remember it. But I'll start with a few memories and try to go from
there. They may seem insignificant, but they are building blocks in the
person I am.
I remember:
I played soccer. I'll always talk about playing soccer because thats
where my heart is. But I played other sports for years too. I ran
sprints in track. I was sorta fast for a little while, and even won
ribbons. I ran the 100, the 4x100, the 400, and did long jump. I hated
getting up before the sun. I did a week long speed camp, mostly for
soccer skills, with four other boys - my brother and three of his
friends. I remember one of his friends making lude and sexual comments
about me and being embarrassed, but the male coach heard and ripped
those boys apart, punishing them with extra push ups and conditioning
and all the while telling them that I was an equal and was to be treated
with respect. That resonated with me beyond anything that any coach has
said, because I was at an age where I could have doubted it and
believed I was less. It did not change me, but seeing that reaction from
a male coach made me understand the truth behind it when I needed it.
My dad ALWAYS said it. My brother always said it. But to have an
authority figure who i barely knew validate it with that much fervor
gave me a quiet power for the rest of my life.
I played basketball. I could have been pretty good, but had a terrible
(female) junior high coach who belittled me and I gave up, even though
the (male) high school coach wanted me to play.
Mostly, I remember a special moment with my mom, who came with me to my
softball games. I was always in the infield. I played short stop, second
base, third base and catcher. I really enjoyed playing catcher... You
always got to touch the ball and be involved. She told me before one
game... "You know... If the batter hits a foul ball, and you catch it,
they are out." That game, with that knowledge, I did just that. I was a
hero because the coach never thought to tell me. For the rest of my
softball "career", I wanted to do that. And everytime I did, I did it
for my mom. My mom was at many of my soccer games but people remember my
Dad being my main "always there" guy for soccer, and he was. But I
don't know if my mom realizes that I count that as one of my top
athletic memories. I'm also good at bowling because of my mom.
Genetically, but also because she sent us to bowling camp and took us to
play a lot. Guys don't like to bowl with me because of it, and I take
that as a compliment. Many times I realize that my dedication to remain
in sports comes not only from men who treated me with the respect to
live up to my potential, but also the positive reinforcement from women
that there is absolutely nothing wrong with being a strong athletic
girl.
Another top memory from my childhood, which has nothing to do with
sports, is when I was little and hated going to bed (no wonder where my
kids get it). I snuck downstairs to see if I could... Ya know...NOT go
to bed, and found my dad watching a Peter, Paul, and Mary concert on
PBS. He was feeling nostalgic, I think, and sitting in"his" chair, and
when I peeked around the corner he invited me to stay and watch. It was
late, and it was a school night, and I wanted to spend time with him.
And he let me. I was elated.
He talked to me about the music, we listened to a lot of songs including
"Puff the Magic Dragon," and he had tears in his eyes for some of the
most serious ones. I remember this night because I knew he wanted to
spend time with me. I knew I was getting a special treat, and because of
one of the rare conversations I do remember...
"Look, Erin, they keep showing the girl in the audience. She's smiling,
pretty... That's what your mom looks like. Big, pretty smile, pretty
eyes. She reminds me of Mom."
That's one of those moments when you realize you want to be exactly like
your mom, and you want to marry someone who loves you like that.
I could try to write posts that could be generic, and be viral, shared
across the world because it is generic enough and short enough to touch
many people who want a quick enlightenment, but what good would that do?
Life might be a popularity contest, but the really good parts don't
have to be. My kids deserve to know the details. So do I.
When I get brief moments, I will share more about the memories that made
an impact in my own life as well as the current ones that fill my heart
now.
