Every Friday we unite for five minutes. Only five minutes, that's all we get, that's all we have. And then, right where we are, no edits or second thoughts, we publish those words. This week, we write on store.
I was putting away your report cards the other day, storing them for a time in which you'll never want them back...because who does?
In the closet upstairs, I have two big boxes stored with your teeny tiny clothes; the ones I couldn't part with after you had grown out of them.
In the basement, Dad has bins of legos and figures that he has stored away too; the ones he once played with and then got to again when you were born.
Parents do this sort of thing. We store away your items, your trinkets, your little.
All we are really doing is storing our memories in boxes, hoping they will bring us warmth.
We store your pictures in albums, we store our vacation memories in boxes, we store your awards, your life.
When I go through them, I remember who bought you what outfit, I smell the baby that once was a puddle in my arms, I remember the toddler that squealed with joy.
I miss that version of you and us so so much, even though I'm so happy exactly where we are.
Then one day, you will rummage through the boxes, you will take a mental note of the organization I tried to put to it all, and you will sit down and start to flip through.
You will look through what I stored, what I tucked away, and you will be amazed at the mom who threw so much away on you, actually kept quite a bit.
I hope you will realize that I loved this time with you my littles.
I loved being your mom and I loved storing all of your memories.
I hope you one day find love so great that the memories of that love will keep you forever warm.