On the morning when we bought a talking camel, December 2011, Jerusalem, Israel
“Okay, buddy, one more page.”
Whit nodded and kept reading his current book, Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson’s Greek Gods
He climbed into his lower bunk and pulled up his covers as I turned off the overhead light and switched on the nightlight, which is in the shape of a Bruins zamboni and was a Christmas present from Grace last year. Whit made sure he had the four special animals that he sleeps with. I kneeled by his bed. I love bedtime. Every single time I tuck a child in and say “I’ll see you in the morning” I am aware of what an incandescent privilege it is.
I leaned over to kiss his forehead as he whispered the same prayers he says every night.
“I love you. I love you. I love you.”
He sat up in surprise. The sing-songy voice of a camel that we bought in Jerusalem on the Mount of Olives spoke from the top bunk.
“Daddy?”
Matt’s laugh erupted from the top bunk as he sat up. Both Whit and I started laughing too, and I heard Grace’s footsteps on the stairs as she dashed up to join us. An aside: much like Whit reading with me in bed, another thing I am clinging to, and loving, even as I know its days are numbered is Grace thundering to join the rest of the family when she hears us laughing. This reminds me of knowing the tide’s coming in and building sandcastles anyway …
Grace clambered into bed with Whit, and Matt joined them once he’d climbed down the ladder. He was still squeezing the camel, whose robotic voice kept saying “I love you. I love you. I love you.”
Ordinary life is a slurry of mundane moments which is occasionally dotted with a glittering experience of dazzling beauty. I know that being aware of and awake to that slurry allows us to see the glimmer. I also know that it’s unusual for me to be aware, as I live a moment, that it is one of those that I’ll think back to and remember. In fact I write a lot about how complex and unknowable is the algorithm through which experience becomes memory. Last week’s laughter-filled bedtime was a rare experience of knowing even as I lived a series of minutes that they would become a cherished stone in my memory’s pocket, burnished from being held, turned over, recalled.
Will it be one of Grace’s and Whit’s, a moment that stands out in their recollections of their childhood? I can’t know. I think of the Pat Conroy quote from The Prince of Tides that I used as an epigraph to an essay I wrote in high school:
There are no verdicts to childhood, only consequences, and the bright freight of memory.
I hope that sliver of time last week, the minutes we all shared in Whit’s nightlight-lit room, laughing hard and remembering a chilly, windy morning on the Mount of Olives when the children bought talking camels will be a part of Grace and Whit’s bright freight of memory of these years. It will be for me.
I’m fascinated by the different ways we remember things. I imagine one sure thing is that Grace and White will always find you between the pages of books, in the stands at arenas, and on stretches of sidewalk with papier mâché-like layers of wet, autumn leaves.
Beautiful as ever.
What a great family moment. And I think about this a lot too. What will be the memories they will carry with them? Perhaps different? Perhaps the same? Thanks as always for sharing..
touching. nostalgic. stolen moments, not to be taken for granted.
memories are based on so many variables and touch all the senses.
i am surprised at the memories our adult children relive. the one common thread memory, the one week a year we scrimped and saved for us to go on vacation each year. they speak of the being together, no clocks, time standing still, us and them for one week. where we went is pale in comparison to just being together. for that, i am eternally grateful. thanks for this memory.
AND, i love your analogy of building sandcastles even tho the tide is coming in. time is such a precious commodity.
I love this. I’ve always treasured those moments when we were laughing hard as a family, sometimes about things that only we would understand.
I also think that you writing about those moments will preserve them for them, as well.
Love this – what a beautiful and spontaneous moment. These are the keepers. These are the ones that will be remembered more than the ones that required meticulous planning.
I love this. And, I have to admit it is my husband who often brings the silly and the unexpected to our best memories, too. I can be too serious! This is a good reminder and a beautifully written piece.
An incandescent privilege. Yes — not only raising children but living deeply in all moments. I was very moved by this vivid story in your life, Lindsay.
Beautiful, Lindsey.
Your piece reminded me of this quote by Oscar Wilde, “Memory is the diary we all carry about with us.” We may not be writing down every moment, but in those quiet seconds, an image appears, we pause and remember. xo
These are my favorite kind of memories – the ones I never think about implanting in my mind, but surface at odd times now that my kids are older. Thank you.
“how complex and unknowable is the algorithm through which experience becomes memory”. Just beautiful. This sentence, your heart and the gift of your reflections fill me up. xx
I love those random intimate moments that are unique to each family. I also treasure them, and I’m fairly certain our children will too. (They better:)!)