I Can’t Remember My Kids When They Were Little

I’m 42… or 43? Honestly, I can’t even remember sometimes. Life goes by so fast, and yet at the same time, it drags on so slowly.

I have two kids. My daughter is just two weeks shy of 16, and my son is 13. So, I’m in the throes of motherhood, trying my best to survive raising two teenagers.

As sad as this is to admit, I can’t really remember what it was like when they were little. From babies to toddlers, I have so many pictures of them, but when I look at those photos it feels like another life. I get glimpses here and there, but not a lot of full memories — and that makes me so sad.

Is that normal? Am I losing my mind? Early-onset Alzheimer’s?! Okay, maybe that’s extreme. But for real — I cannot remember them as little kids.

Maybe it’s because I was too busy with the chaos of life — the schedules, working, tantrums, plans. I know they were babies and toddlers once. I mean, I gave birth to them. I breastfed them, fed them baby food, tucked them into bed at night, read them stories, took them to the park, went on vacations, cleaned up puke, sat through ER visits. So it had to have been real, right?

It just doesn’t *feel* real.

And now here we are: they’re teenagers. Of course, I want to believe I’ll slow down, soak this time in, and really remember it. But will I?

In six years, when they’re adults, will I look back at photos of them now and feel the same disconnect? It feels like I’m raising different kids every single year. Does this even make sense?

Maybe you’re reading this and thinking: *Geez, she’s a horrible mom who can’t even remember her own kids.* But every year brings a new version of them. That’s both happy and sad.

So which version will I remember?

The bigger question is: how will *they* remember *me*?

When I’m gone, will their memories be of the younger me — the mama with dark brown hair who wore leggings and graphic tees every day? The mama who read bedtime stories, pushed them on swings, and snuggled them to sleep?

Or will it be the mama who got frustrated when they puked on the bed at 2 a.m.? The mama who broke up too many fights, fussed at them about homework, but also made them chicken noodle soup when they were sick?

Maybe it’ll be the mama who laughed at dumb jokes, embarrassed them in public, and still play-wrestled even when she probably shouldn’t. Or maybe the mama who held them when their hearts were broken.

Or will it just be the old lady with gray hair and a cane — if I live that long?

Here’s what I do know: I wish I could remember *every* single thing. Every little moment. But maybe it’s not as important as I think.

What matters most is being the best version of myself *now* — so that when they look back, whatever they do remember will be the best parts of their childhood, and the best version of me.

If they remember anything at all.