Scrolling

Right into nostalgia

I scrolled back to an old Amsterdam post recently trying to remember the places we ate there because a friend is visiting soon, and was looking for recommendations. I used to avoid, with intention, the baby pictures when I was fresher from birth with Anders. And that uber sensitive fresh-from-birth time where I avoided those memories? It lasted a really long time. I was, quite literally, overcome with sadness if the pictures struck at the right time and the right time was often.

So, I’m now nine years out from that—where did the last several actually go?—and when I came upon these pictures, it still gave my heart such longings. It wasn’t the same as those that used to level me, but it was not without a twinge of painful nostalgia.

Does that ever go away?

Their faces, their voices, the way their bodies would feel cocooned into mine at just those ages and sizes, the way they’d interact with each other, with me, with the world. I remember them chasing birds in Amsterdam, Anders’ movements clunky and adorable the way a toddlers are. Parker, caring less if people were watching, and chasing after those same birds with abandon.

When I go down this path, there’s a hamster wheel of dialogue going in my head—do you remember that? what was their smell? what did their voices sound like? how did Anders pronounce the word hotel again? (It was adorable.) do you remember how they spoke to each other?? did their pudgy hands hold yours a lot? did they still stand at the back door when you drove away? when did that stop anyway?—quizzing myself rapid-fire, seeing how much I remember, how present I was.

How present was I? Do other mothers remember like me? Better? Worse?

I was reading Anders’ journal the other day. Well, I was writing in it—something I do far too infrequently these days—and he asked that I read him some old entries. As I did, it was hard to actually remember what it was I was describing. Why? Where did it go? If I found myself back in it at the snap of a finger, I know it would feel familiar. Old hat. Like “oh, of course, this is exactly as it was.” But it’s still hard to conjure with all of my senses—and I want them all in on it!—so many years later.

I hate that.

The truth is this: I love these ages too. I love watching them figure out what makes them come alive and helping foster that in their lives. But I miss the way I felt, the way the love felt when they were little. The all-encompassing, overwhelming, heart-bursting love that is inevitable when they need you like they do when they’re little. The way nearly everything is steeped in sweetness and feels more measurable. I miss having my tank filled with our love and our love alone.