June 22, 2016 | Last night I stood at the side of my daughter's labor and delivery gurney and witnessed the birth of her daughter. My granddaughter. My first granddaughter. And I captured the moment.
I let every other detail, every other thought, and every other concern fade away, letting the immediate scene fill my present. My daughter, her husband, the doctor, the nurse, and a perfect new person making the journey into the world. I witnessed it all. It was miraculous. It was amazing and awesome in the truest sense of those words. I have added this moment to the other special moments that I've captured in my memory.
The first time I ever specifically realized I was capturing a moment, I was only six years old. The youngest of five by ten years, I felt more like an only child. I sat in our brown Impala, sandwiched in between my father at the wheel and my mother on the bench seat. There weren't any laws about putting kids in the back seat back then. We felt technologically advanced to have lap belts. The shoulder belt hadn't yet been created, and its forerunner was my mother's arm, flung against my chest if my father found it necessary to slam on the brakes. It wasn't a perfect system, but it kept my head from ramming the dash on multiple occasions.
I was tired and had flopped over to nestle my head into my mother's cushiony lap. She gazed down at me and smiled, running her fingers through my curly hair, separating the ringlets into finer ringlets. She smiled at me, and everything else faded away in the car, and I knew, in that moment, that she loved me beyond measure. I knew she loved me more than anyone else ever would. I knew she understood me and accepted me better than anyone else ever could. I knew she would move heaven and earth to protect me. But, I also knew that I wouldn't have her forever. I knew I better cherish her while I had the chance. Maybe that's why I still remember the moment, because I realized I needed to take advantage of my time with her. Those are serious realizations for a six-year-old girl.
Earlier that year, one of the kindergarten carpool kids had shut her finger in the door of the Impala, and I realized digits could be severed. Just like that finger, I knew the time would come that the kind face looking down on me as I lay in her lap wouldn't always be so easily accessible. So, I made a conscious determination to remember the moment.
There have been many moments added to my memory since then. The weekend before my boyfriend was to leave for a two-year mission, I sat on the back deck of his home and watched him going back and forth with the lawnmower, helping his mom and dad. We were nineteen years old. I captured the way the sun shone on his blonde hair; how his strong muscles flexed under his well-worn Levi 501s; the silly grin he'd flash my way on each pass of the deck. I knew. In that captured moment I knew I was watching my future. I knew it was going to hurt when he left. I stored up that memory for the times when I'd feel lonely, when I'd ache to see that grin of his. And it worked, capturing the moment. We just shared our thirtieth anniversary together.
I've had these moments with each of my children--at their births--their milestones--their marriages--and the births of their own children, but especially the moments of clarity when I would see glimpses of their souls in plain old everyday occurrences. I've stored them all up in my memory.
Now is the time for me to write them down - make a record - because a human memory is fallible and life can be short. They can both be severed, just like that kindergartner's finger in the door of the Impala. I say this because I watched the memories of my father-in-law disintegrate, carried away on the gusts of a torrential Alzheimer's storm, blown so far away they could never be recalled.
It seems like yesterday my OB/GYN gingerly laid my daughter on my chest and introduced me to the tiny human who had been kicking my ribs and jostling my bladder. She opened her eyes to look at me, and I knew in that moment I would never forget the feeling of divinity, of holding a piece of heaven in my arms. I instantly loved her beyond measure. I knew I already loved her more than anyone else ever would. I knew I would understand her and accept her better than anyone else ever could. I knew I would move heaven and earth to protect her. You can bet I captured the moment.
My daughter was about to celebrate her first birthday when we got a call to come home because my mother had fallen and needed surgery. We made the four-hour drive. I captured the moment my daughter snuggled in my mother's arms in her hospital bed. I leaned in close and captured the moment - three generations of women. Little did I know it would be the last moment left for capturing before my mother returned to heaven.
Last night, as that same daughter welcomed her own piece of heaven to earth, I thought of that captured moment.
I remembered looking up into my mother's eyes in the Impala.
I remembered looking down into my newborn daughter's gaze.
Now, I've witnessed my daughter gazing down with wonder at her own daughter, realizing how instantly she loves her beyond measure, how she already loves her more than anyone else ever would, how she will understand her and accept her better than anyone else ever can, how she will move heaven and earth to protect her.
We came full circle - mothers and daughters - waddling, swelling, pushing, laboring - all worthwhile efforts when that capture-able moment arrives.
I wish I could take a four-generation picture of us all. Mothers and daughters. But, my six-year-old self was right. My own mother's time was limited. Instead, a new three-generation moment has been captured in my memory, and wisely recorded here, too, for safe keeping against those uncertain tides of time.
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