Memories

You're going to remember car rides.

Lots and lots of car rides; maybe at first you'll remember sun seeping through trees and blinking as we pass other cars, other buildings. Eventually, you'll remember dark, with a toasty car while music quietly plays as tiny snowflakes melt against the glass. Maybe you'll remember stopping for cool drinks, and then hot chocolates, on our way home. You'll remember the shades of autumn against the windows, the way the air smells before the first snow, whipping in the window. You'll remember words to my favourite songs, and I'll remember the ones to yours.

You're going to remember birthdays.

Lots of birthdays. Maybe all your birthdays. And you, my darling, are so loved you will get two parties for every birthday you have. You'll remember a chocolate cake, and then maybe a vanilla cake. One group of voices will sing Happy Birthday. Then, remarkably, the same song will sound completely different, as a different group of people sings it to you on the other side of town. You'll remember being showered in lots of gifts and kisses and hugs. Maybe you'll fall asleep with a hat on, with a tummy full of cake, on your way home.

You're going to remember Christmases.

Maybe you'll learn two different kinds of carols, and lots of different traditions. You'll watch movies and cuddle with me as we eat cookies your grandpa has worked so hard on. They taste like love and the air will smell like trees and cinnamon. And maybe somewhere else you'll open one single gift on Christmas Eve, and eat sweet panettone while carefully avoiding raisins. You'll get a stocking for each foot. You'll remember bundling up and the long trip to see your other grandparent's. Maybe you'll pack books and notepads and games. You'll remember a log cabin and lots of family.

You're going to remember different foods.

You'll have favourites with me, but I'll get frustrated when I've made something you normally love, but it's not what you wanted. Maybe you wanted something you had at your other house at your other table with other parents, before you crawled into your other bed, and snuggled your other bear. I'm going to miss you so bad on those nights. I'll stay up, maybe quietly watch some TV. Maybe I'll enjoy a glass of wine, maybe your step-father will take me for dinner or to a movie to take my mind off of how badly I miss you. But, hopefully...

You'll remember missing me, too.

I don't like the idea of promising you things, because if I cannot follow through it will break my heart. But I know one thing for certain:

You will never remember having parents who yell or fight with each other. There will be no awkward dinners where Daddy storms off and Mommy quietly lets tears fall into her mashed potatoes. You won't need to keep secrets just in case it makes your parents fight. You will not see your Daddy sleeping on the couch; you will never see your Mommy pack a bag and sleep at Grandma and Grandpa's. You won't have to sit in silence as you wait up late, letting the television flicker shades of blue around you, as you try to listen in to the raised voices behind a bedroom door. You won't remember sitting at a table having a very grown up conversation being had at you, and you won't have to try to make sense of it or try to understand if it was your fault.

I will try so hard to ensure...

You will only remember love.

Twice.