They won’t remember so much of what I’ve done for them in these early years.
They won’t remember the nights of lost sleep, the second-guessing myself, and the times I thought I was failing them. They won’t remember the time I spent getting to know them both in the quiet stillness of those wintery nights almost four years apart.
They won’t remember the sacrifices I’ve made to my own dreams, my own happiness, and my own sanity.
They won’t remember the way I cut their sandwiches in half or quarters just the way they both like them.
They won’t remember the times I’ve cried over the kitchen sink while pretending to do dishes because some days motherhood is too much for me.
They won’t remember the days I counted the minutes until bedtime because I just wanted to be left alone.
They won’t remember the extra effort I put in just to find that certain toy for Christmas last year.
They won’t remember how I went to battle for them at school and in the pediatrician’s office time after time.
They won’t remember the nights I snuck into their rooms after those hard days, just to watch them sleep for a few minutes.
They won’t remember the way their little voices made my heart skip a beat and feel like a big movie star had just called my name.
They won’t remember that I swore too much or yelled too much or hugged them too much either.
They won’t remember the diapers I’ve changed, the homework I’ve helped with, or the bottles I’ve made.
They won’t remember so many things.
But, I will. And so will you, mama.
It’s our job to tell them, to show them, to help them remember.
This story originally appeared on These Boys of Mine