Forget-Me-Nots

April 20, 2011

Time passes too quickly; that, of course, is a given.

But I'm loathe to throw in the towel. I use my camera like a weapon, pointing and shooting throughout each day, hoping somehow to preserve each special memory, each small moment, for all time.

Yet there is another given: I'd like to believe I can arm myself thusly, and never forget. But forgetting is also a given, sad as that truth may be. I look back at photos and videos from when Ayize was 1 month old, 6 months old, 18 months old, his 2nd birthday...and the photos and videos are lovely to behold. I can look upon them and remember a certain way his face looked at a certain age, or the way his hair changed through each age and stage. I can look beyond the photos to the backgrounds, the other people and children present, and remember events, wheres, and whos, friends he has had, and activities they have done, and places we have been. I can watch a snippet of video and remember anew the way he said, "Mama" two years ago, or the way he toothily declared "Ah-goo!" three years ago. The timid way he once smiled, lacking the brash confidence that is now his hallmark, once, when he was very young (as if he is so old now - ha ha), and I feel a smug sense of victory over Father Time.

But my success in this battle is an illusion. I cannot truly remember each minute of each day, each moment I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt at some amusing, adorable action - nor those other darker moments when I seethed internally at some defiant, enraging antic.

And though I document obsessively, and cling with tenacity, to all that is Ayize, I will be old and frail and senile in the blink of Time's eye, and others who remember will likewise be, and the technology that houses this digital store of Ayize memory will likely by then be antiquated, outdated, and no longer accessible.

So - in the long run - Time will win, as Time always does.

But I'll cling to my illusions yet, because I never want to accept the possibility of one forgotten moment.

Much of this, I know, is the result of being a single parent. As the weight of shouldering the sole parental responsibility for his care, feeding, clothing, educating, etc. weighs heavily and ever-present upon me, so does the weight of wanting to be sure he knows how much he is treasured and loved. I can love enough for two parents; that, I do not doubt. But can I remember enough?

Only Time will tell.

So here is one day in the life. Not a day filled with noteworthy events, or major milestones. Not a day where a surgery took place, or a wedding.

Just a day.

One day in time.

To help me remember.

I don't want to forget how Grandma stopped by unexpectedly during Ayize's breakfast of two buttery mini-bagels, slathered in spreadable fruit, and how she was joyfully treated to his special brand of ear-runbbing affection, after being gifted with a bug net filled with stretchy colorful plastic insects from Target.

I don't want to forget that we headed to a shoe store in Winnetka and walked out the happy recipients of both a pair of sneakers and a pair of sandals, both at hugely-slashed prices. Nor that Ayize begged me for his first-ever gumball, which he proudly displayed for me - stuck to the roof of his mouth.

I especially don't want to forget how much he actually disliked the sensation of gum in his mouth, and made this face the entire time it was in there, though his stubborn nature refused to allow him to spit it out willingly.

I don't want to forget that we passed the Winnetka Public Library as we returned home along Green Bay Road, and that I asked him if he wanted to check it out (we've never been), and how gamely he agreed, and how eagerly he hopped from the car, and how he set off with a comical, jerking stride to provoke my smiles and laughter (he succeeded).

Nor how boldly he strode into this strange, new place, eager as always to join Mom in any adventure.

Nor how he made me giggle as he went down the ramp for the handrail as if it was a slide, complete with singing, "Wheeeee!" all the (slow, very slow) way down.

Nor how he jogged across the front lawn, pretending to run away.

I don't want to forget how we came home to Weeman's high-piched screams of joy, how Ayize ran inside and leaned up against two big boxes to remove his boots with his heels (a habit he's acquired recently, and one that looks so grown up to behold) so he could hurry to "help" his ancient, diabetic dog outside to potty. Nor how he hollered joyously, "Mama, he poo-poo in the litterbox!" when he caught sight of Weeman's customary lake of pee in the back den. (He helps the dog as much as he tattles on him!)

I certainly don't ever want to forget about school, and all that school entails: the dread each day, and fear at a potential stormy parting (offset today by his happiness at doing this "puzzle" his teacher produced preventatively) in equal parts mixed with the joy and triumph of knowing he is doing so well (once he gets over that drop-off hump), making so many friends, behaving so nicely, and learning so much.

And I never want to forget what it feels like to watch the clock's hands reach 2:45, to dash eagerly to school to wait on pins and needles, to peep secretly through the classroom window to see what he's up to (yet another puzzle, and I watched as he accidentally dropped the board, then carefully bent to retrieve it off the floor, to the sound of the teacher's praise).

I never want to forget the look on his face that always emerges - dazzling, like sunlight penetrating a wintry day - when he spots me. How he shouts, "Mama!" and breaks into a huge grin.

I never want to forget the bear hug he gives me (and I usually get one from his good pal Robert, too), the feeling of his hand as it clasps mine and leads me away down the hallway, the sound of his voice as he calls, "Buh-bye, tank-oo" to his teachers and classmates, the way the other kids catch my eye and shyly wave goodbye as we disappear down the hall in the opposite direction of the school bus loading area.

And I never want to forget our quick dip into the library after school today, the way he listened carefully to me in the parking lot and understood that we were only spending ten minutes inside, his easy compliance when I said it was time to go, despite it being one of his favorite destinations. And despite the fact that both Mr. Rick and Mr. Brian were there - two of his favorite guys in the world!

I never want to forget - no matter how much remembering sometimes hurts - that all week, this week, he has been going through yet another "Daddy-desire" period, and how he tries every trick in the book to get and hold the attention of Dan, Daryle, the "Misters" at the library, my dad...

I never want to forget our trip to Whole Foods after the library, and how we ran into Luke and he shouted with joy to see "Gooky". Nor how he got a kiddie cart, pushed it, loaded up two boxes of our fave veggie burgers, pushed the cart to the checkout line with minimal assistance, and even unloaded the boxes for me as he importantly informed me that he was "hepping" me shop.

I loved how he played so beueautifully by himself in Tamara's backyard, and his silly antics.

I don't want to forget our outing to Penny Park, and how he seized upon a dad and his family of four (three girls and a boy), and how he easily befriended them all and joined in their games - tag, hide-and-seek, running up and down the sledding hill - as if they were all old friends.

I loved the way the youngest daughter, just a toddler, idolized him and followed him all over the park.

I laughed when the two of them wedged themselves into corners of a step on the westernmost castle turret. She sang softly, "My Daddy, my Daddy!" and Ayize watched her. Then suddenly, he broke their mutual silence with a startling and ear-piercing holler of "WHEREYOURDADDY??" which made us all - Ayize included - jump!

I hope I don't forget how he looked, in this shaft of sunlight, as he hummed and swung himself to and fro on the suspended tire swing below the climbing hole.

I would like to always remember the love Ayize has had for "Baby Nay-ten" from the first moment he met him. He adores being the honorary "big brother" and teaching him all about cool car sounds boys are supposed to make when they spin steering wheels, and other essential info along those lines. Today was no exception; he "drove" Nathan around town in his "taxi" not long before it was time to leave the park and head home for a nice big dinner of a veggie cheeseburger, four slices of pizza, and strawberries with whipped cream for dessert.

I never, ever want to forget the conversation he had with himself as he played in the bath alone after all the washing was done. I was sitting on the bath mat nearby, reading my book, listening to him splash and hum, when suddenly he performed an imaginary play starring his two bath ducks and a sand bucket.

High voice: "I am playing."

Low voice: "I want to play with you - PLEEEEEASE?"

High voice: "Okay, you play too."

(splash, splash, splash)

High voice: "Oh no, we falling inna bucket!"

Low voice: "Weeeee-fallllll-downnnnn!"

I grabbed my camera from the other room and dashed back, hoping for a repeat performance, but I didn't get lucky. Still, I caught a small snippet of another conversation here, which I present for posterity, and to jog my memory, in future.

Silly goose!

I love you, child o' mine, with all my heart.

I may forget some of the pesky details - the sound of your voice at this age, or at that stage. The way your curls ran ramshackle at such and such many months, but straightened into dangling locks at so and so later age. Et cetera, et cetera, et tu, cruel et cetera.

But I will never forget the big picture: my adoration for you, which has blazed most memorably, consistently, straight and true, these several years, and for all eternity to come - of this, I have no doubts.