- Recently my son told me that all his memories of his dad were of him yelling.
- He needed memories from before his dad went through cancer treatment to remember who he was.
- I have all the memories of his dad, and it's my job to share them whenever they're needed.
A few weeks ago, my son admitted that in all his memories of his dad, his dad is yelling at him.
He said that while I was sitting at my desk desperate to get a piece in before a fast-approaching deadline, while dinner was boiling over on the stove, while my inbox was full of folks waiting on me to make important decisions about our home insurance and medical coverage. I'd just patted myself on the back because there was a chance I'd make it through my to-do list that day, a rare victory.
I closed my computer. I turned off the stove. I ignored my emails and accepted that I wasn't going to make it through my to-do list. I had a more important job to do. I had to do the most important job I have as a widowed solo mom to two grieving tweens: being the memory keeper.
I have all the memories to share
My son needed my memories of his dad — the ones before brain cancer and the medicine used to treat that cancer made his dad smile less and lose his temper more. I told my son stories about the times his dad created fanciful games with action figures for the two of them to play, the times they built elaborate castles out of simple blocks together, and the times they "watched TV" (more like napped) on the couch together.
I gave my son memories I had that he was too young to have retained. He was just 4 when his dad got the diagnosis, when a disease began taking all the best parts of his dad's humor and laugh. He doesn't have many memories of his dad.
But I do.
I remember how excited he was to be a dad
I have the memory of the first time his dad held him. The memory of how excited his dad was to take him to a Yankees game. The memory of the first family road trip we took, the time we all dressed in costume and acted out "Frozen," the time we thought it'd be a good idea to sign up for early-morning soccer clinics.
I have all those memories, plus the memories of his dad as a young man dating me, as a young professional learning the corporate ropes, as a new homeowner figuring it out. I have memories of his dad's jokes and his dad's intelligence and his dad's bravery in the face of a devastating diagnosis.
And it's my job to give those memories as often as needed. It takes priority over all the other jobs I have as a widowed solo mom whose hours are filled by not only my real job but a few thousand other jobs, including chauffeur, chef, accountant, landscaper, administrative assistant, light-bulb changer, and finder of all things. Because without those memories they'll lose even more parts of their dad, and they've already lost too much.
Memory keeper is a job I'll stop everything for, even though of all my jobs as a solo mom, it's the least likely to appear on a Mother's Day card. It can't be measured in miles driven or meals cooked. It won't make sure that the bills are paid or that the kids have eaten something nutritious. It certainly won't help ensure the house is standing at the end of the day.
But it will feed my children's souls and fill their hearts and remind them they're loved by two parents, all the time, even if one isn't here to show it. It will keep a memory bright when it starts to dull.
That's worth a burnt dinner and an extra late night to meet a deadline.
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