Wendy Bradford wrote a beautifully articulate article that appeared on Huffington Post, tackling a question I’ve asked myself numerous times, usually in moments where I’m second guessing myself – just what will our kids remember from their childhood when they grow up?
“I am not sure they will remember the year I lightened my hair to a strange reddish tone, or when I lost five pounds. Or gained seven. Or if they will remember the clothes in my closet, the handbags they rifle through looking for gum, my gold sandals they like to wear through the apartment (especially Henry) or the pear-scented oil I dab on the inside of their wrists before their father and I leave for a date night.
My children may remember how I scream at them to go to sleep, or brush their teeth, or stop playing with their food. They surely won’t forget my threatening to throw away Barbie dolls and trains if they weren’t picked up and put away this very second.
I hope they remember how they giggle every time their father and I hug in front of them.”