How is it that some events make their way into our permanent memories, where we are able to immediately access them and play them back in full HD, while others just seem to vanish from our consciousness like mist in the midday sun? And it’s not an indictment of the memory either. It could actually be an important memory, of a special occasion or a life milestone. It could be an entire chapter or a page or even a single line from the book of our lives and without even knowing it, part of our story is gone.
It is true to say that some memories would be better off left in the recycling bin; for instance I could easily ditch the memory of the smug face of the delinquent bully, several years older (and heads taller) than I who bashed my face against a pole, snapping one of my front teeth in half when I was in primary school. Or indeed the horrific afternoon spent dry-heaving against an empty stomach due to a poor decision, taken a couple of hours before, to try and consume a full bottle of whiskey in a Guinness record time with two equally misguided friends. We even crushed the bottle cap to show our commitment to the foolishness. Yes, I could easily forget those two wretched memories.
But forgetting something is not quite as permanent as say, dropping your iPad into a swimming pool without an iCloud backup. There is a way to bring those memories back to life, to rescue them from the abyss.
The secret is family.
Recently I’ve been reminded of parts of my childhood that I’d all but forgotten. It’s not that I was just sitting around self indulgently fretting about my lost memories, actually I was none the wiser. I had no idea there were pieces missing. But then circumstance brought my nuclear family, previously spread out across the globe, together again in a single room and then as if by magic, somewhat dusty boxes full of memories from my youth were opened and lovingly unpacked. Even things I thought I had a clear memory of were given a new spin just by having them narrated back to me from another perspective.
As I watch my two little minions learning, making memories and experiencing the wonder of the world they live in, I can’t help but think that in any given situation, they are both seeing the same thing, but are taking away from it different memories. Even this blog, which I originally started so that I could record the day to day antics of of the little guys, is merely a perspective from a single vantage point, my own.
I resolve, from now on make an effort to see their days through both sets of eyes. To ask them each to tell me about their day at the beach, or in the park or on their bikes or simply sitting in the living room surrounded by a mirriad of lego creations and pieces. They will, in each instance, come away with different memories of those days. I would like to try preserve as many of those days for them as I can.
I also resolve to encourage both my boys to keep a journal. That is what this blog amounts to really. It’s a journal of my sons from my perspective, until they’re ready to write their own stories.
Speaking of journals, they’ve come a long way since the black leather bound book with the year embossed on the front where a small padlock guarded the pages. Now you can use an iPad (and spellchecker) to upload your thoughts to the cloud. You can blog (or vlog) them into the ether for everyone to see or you can encrypt them in a 128-bit vault where only the most determined NSA cryptographers can get a peek at them.
I must say that, as I type this, I’m eager to see what my boys will say in their very first journal entries. I’ll ask if I can read them of course. What will I find out about them? Will one of them confess to eating all of the Nutella? Will they reveal the location of the spare AppleTV remote?
Perhaps. But it’s far more likely though that all I’ll find out is that they wipe freshly picked boogers under the kitchen counter when we’re not looking.