The Shadow of Memory: How Clarity Informs Perspective

A little girl joyfully runs through the park, her summer hat flapping in the breeze as she heads towards the swings.

I wish my memories would be more kind.

I've spent the last few months transferring photos and videos to a hard drive to avoid paying Google to keep them for me. Therefore, I've been perusing the museum of my children's early years. If you had asked me what I would view before I pressed play, I would have recounted those blurry years with tears in my eyes. I would have told you the struggle of night feedings, tantrums, and the floor constantly littered with toys. I would have told you about my longing for friendship, the boredom a grown-up playing make-believe can feel, and how I missed leaving the house in the morning or putting makeup on. Before I pressed play, my mind was focused only on the pain and the problems of raising three kids under four years old.

But it turns out that my memory is fatalistic; my mind is mutinous. While watching videos of the presumed toughest years of my life, I heard hope in the voice of the woman behind the camera. I saw my children laughing as they interacted with me. I watched common, everyday scenes of my toddlers playing or jumping in a puddle or speaking their silly gibberish—remarkably, still understanding every word. I recorded them playing on their tablet or wearing winter hats while dancing to the Nutcracker soundtrack in July, heedless to what the calendar deemed appropriate. I watched my oldest two kids happily screaming at one another and jumping up and down because it made the baby scream and that brought them joy. But mostly, what I noted was that the mom taking those videos was not depressed or distracted. She was not resigned or overburdened. She was present in both body and mind. She was joyful—and yes, oh so tired. But she was content. 

My memory has not been kind to the mother I was. It erased all the joy of motherhood and replaced it with only the struggle, weighing my heart down with regret and lies. This perspective has coloured the way I relate with new moms, finding myself being more sarcastic than encouraging. I don’t think it’s wrong to feel relief that I no longer need to push a stroller around. Yet it’s pivotal that I remember my children’s childhood with clarity and truth. Those years were challenging, but they also held so much magic that was unique to their age and stage. Where we lived, who we met, what we played and sang will stay suspended in time—the collection of their childhood experience. And I was a first-hand witness to it all.

I created a lot of that magic by nurturing their bodies, minds, and hearts. I planned and managed both minor and major events that fed their curiosity and met their social and emotional needs. For every one time I pushed them away—beyond my capacity to cope for the moment—there was a plethora of pulling them in, drawing them closer for connection. I have to work harder for these memories, but they are there and I must give myself credit for them.

So from this, I resolve to learn from the mother I am today for the mother I will be tomorrow. Don't trust the shadow of a memory. Instead, gather the evidence like wildflowers growing in a field. Not everything out there is beautiful or worth keeping, but those surprising flowers that grow scattered between tall grasses and thistles are gifts to hold close and treasure.

I honour the woman on the dark side of the camera when I choose to remember her with grace—and clarity.