Collecting

Some people collect stamps. Some collect random objects. Some collect baseball cards, clothing, keychains, or shot glasses. Some people collect butterflies. I collect Francesisms--any pretty, shiny bauble of a memory that shows who she is right now; like bits of broken glass worn smooth at the beach, I bring them home and line them up on the mantle, where I can see them often.

I desperately want to pin these memories down. Like butterflies, these memories are delicate and beautiful, nearly impossible to catch, and once caught and pinned they lose their liveliness and half their beauty. Like butterflies, it is impossible to catch them all, and if you spend all your time trying, you will be so fixated on the one being pursued that hundreds of others will fly by unnoticed. I try to balance simply watching with netting and pinning, but no matter how many I capture it is never enough. And whatever is not caught is forgotten. It is only what I record of Frances's life that I remember.

There is the blog. Without it, would I remember that she was once so tiny that my left hand covered her entire torso? Would I remember that afternoon when all she did was cry, and I lost it and started to cry myself and ranted about how much I hated life as I carried her up the stairs, and for the first time she lifted her wobbly head off my shoulder and looked me in the eye, and all my fears and sadness were converted in that one moment to joy: "Look at you! You're lifting your head! What a strong baby! I'm so proud of you!"

There are the photo albums, several of them, filled with every photo I have taken of her that turned out even halfway decent; archival albums with plastic sleeves and spots for notes. The notes are mostly simple--the day, the occasion. Without them, would I remember now how round your cheeks once were? You've always been a slim baby, you never were covered with rolls of fat, but once your cheeks were like baseballs; once your hair was a fuzzy blond pixie cut, and before that, a two-inch mohawk thanks to the two crowns on the back of your head. The photos are backed up on DVD and stored in your memory box, organized by your age and the event.

There is the video. We're not as good with this. Our camera loses its charge easily, so we have to remind ourselves to plug it in. But we have enough to make a two-hour long movie for every year of your life which is then given to your grandparents at Christmas time. Without them, would I remember how you used to say "Mama" and "baw," how you used to cruise around the furniture barely able to reach the top of the coffee table, how you open your mouth like a fish and fly like a bird? Would I remember the way you danced outside of the casinos on the Strip in Las Vegas, bouncing up and down on your feet?

There are the scrapbooks; I've just filled your third and bought a fourth. You have more scrapbooks than years, despite my intention not to fill them so quickly. I never use the original photos, and they're not stored in the same place as the albums. I can't say what moves me to record one event and not another, unless it's the availability of a particularly delicious photograph. We have no page about your teething, nothing about you learning to run, nothing about toilet-training. But I have a page about how adorable you looked in that fruit t-shirt-and-skort ensemble from your Oma and two pages about how much you love to dance, not to mention the two-page spread on your love affair with Elmo. Without them, would I remember how one day I put you down for tummy time and thought you were so cute sticking your little tushy in the air that I had to get a picture, so I put you down on the bed and starting snapping away, and you flailed and writhed and flashed me anguished faces until--flip!--you rolled over on your back, and I was so shocked I forgot I had the camera in my hand so had to put you back on your stomach to catch the moment of triumph again? Would I remember that you learned to walk the weekend Kim came to visit last summer, and perfected it for Rachel's visit a few weeks later? Would I remember that the first time you danced you did so by kicking your legs in the air sideways?

There's Radio Free Frances. Without it how would I recall the timbre and pitch of your voice, the way you say "gobbo gobbo" and "I sink so" and "Baby Eloise!"

Entire rooms full of stacked boxes lined with black velvet and filled with butterflies; but when I pin them, I mangle them; I tear holes in their wings. And it still isn't enough. It's never enough. The air is thick with butterflies and all I can do is try to capture the most beautiful, the sweetest, if it hovers long enough to let me get close. Sometimes they don't, and I hope I will remember them, but I never do. Like a dream, they fade no matter how determined I am to remember.

Why do I do this? A blog and photo albums and scrapbooks and video and a podcast--surely that's overkill? I think it's safe to say that most mothers don't go so far to record their children's lives. Is it because I remember so little of my own childhood that I am determined to give you what I don't have? Is it because I am terrified of what might be back there, of why I don't remember, that I need to record how happy and carefree your childhood is so I can be sure there are no monsters lurking in the dark for you? Or am I just obsessed by the thought that it is all so fleeting, it goes so fast, you are already by tomorrow a different person than you are today, and so every day I lose you and gain you all over again, lose and gain lose and gain, and I love the gain but grieve the loss and try to lessen it by grabbing as much as my hands will hold and keeping it the only way I can?

Posted by Andrea at July 25, 2006 8:04 AM under Beanie Baby Brags

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