What Grandchildren Remember About Us May Be Very Different From What We Expect

Dear my grandchildren,

If there is one thing I hope you never doubt, it is this:

You made ordinary years of my life feel important simply because I got to be your grandparent.

You probably never realized you were doing it.

You were just growing up.

You came through my door a little taller than the last time.

You told me stories that seemed enormously important to you and occasionally made very little sense to me.

You left toys on my floor.

You asked for snacks.

You changed your favorite color, your favorite television show, your favorite food, and eventually the things you wanted to talk about.

And somehow, while you were busy becoming yourselves, you were creating some of the memories I would treasure most.

I remember birthdays.

Christmas mornings.

Graduations.

Family photographs.

But strangely, those aren't always the memories that return most often.

Sometimes I remember you sitting at my kitchen table.

Sometimes I remember the way you ran toward me when you were little.

Sometimes I remember standing at the front door watching your family's car disappear down the street.

Tiny things.

Ordinary things.

Things you probably forgot almost immediately.

And lately, that has made me wonder about something I rarely hear grandparents talk about.

I know what I remember about you.

But what will you remember about me?

We Spend So Much Time Trying to Create Memories for You

Grandparents can be funny that way.

We want things to be special.

We plan the birthday.

We buy the Christmas present.

We make the meal.

We save for the family trip.

We take photographs because we want you to remember.

Sometimes we worry that we haven't done enough.

Perhaps we couldn't afford the big vacation another family took.

Perhaps our house wasn't exciting.

Perhaps we gave you the same kind of birthday card every year with some money tucked inside.

Perhaps our holidays were simple.

When you love children, it is easy to believe you must create extraordinary experiences for them to carry into adulthood.

But the older I get, the less certain I am that memory works that way.

Because when I think about my own childhood, I don't always remember what adults expected me to remember either.

I remember smells.

Voices.

Little rituals.

How certain rooms felt.

The sound of someone laughing.

The way a person greeted me.

Maybe grandchildren remember grandparents the same way.

Maybe You’ll Remember My Kitchen More Than My Gifts

I wonder if you will remember the presents I bought you.

Some of them probably felt enormously important at the time.

There was always a toy somebody desperately wanted.

Later it became clothes, electronics, gift cards, or money toward something bigger.

I enjoyed giving those things to you.

But most of them are probably gone now.

That doesn't make me sad.

Things are supposed to be used.

What interests me is what might have survived instead.

Maybe you will remember opening my refrigerator without asking.