I was inspired to make my own list. This list will be added to, but here's the first draft:
You won't remember...
You won't remember how I teared up when I saw that you were a boy, my boy, and you had such a sweet little nose.
You won't remember how talked to you and sang to you while you were in my belly. You won't remember how I tapped your little feet that were pushing into my ribs, just to feel you move.
You won't remember my grandma's funeral, and how part of my life was suddenly so empty. You won't remember how you filled much of that void. You helped me get through the heartache.
You won't remember how happy I have been since you've been alive. Really, I've been at my best with you. I rarely have days of sadness or loneliness.
You won't remember the way I brush my chin back and forth on your fuzzy hair. It always makes me feel like we are so close.
You won't remember the camera in your face when I can't help but record yet another funny, cute noise you are making, or the way you tumble when you try to crawl.
You won't remember how proud your dad and I are of you. You are our prize.
You won't remember how many times your dad and I imagined who you would be and what you would look like, and you won't remember how we completely forgot about all of those "what ifs" the moment we saw you. You are you, and we can't believe we imagined anything other than that.
You won't remember me holding you close, so close, before bed.
You won't remember your dad "stealing" bed time from me, just because he loves being with you more than having a few free minutes alone.
You won't remember how I teared up the first day I had to go back to work, and I took a picture of us cuddling, just so I could look at it at any time that day.
You won't remember how protective I am of you. You won't remember how relaxed I am, either.
You won't remember how I sing to you all the time, and your eyes are bright, and you are calmed--or excited. You won't remember the noises and squeals you make that seem like you want to sing along.
You won't remember how close I hold you.
You won't remember lightly stroking my hair when we're close and you just want to be held.
You won't remember how Sadie protects you and watches you and runs to lick you as soon as we get home. Just like your father and me, you are now number one on her list.
You won't remember car rides where you don't like the sun in your face, and you won't remember daddy holding his hand in front of the harsh light.
You won't remember how much your bedtime routine means to us. We just want you to sleep wonderfully.
You won't remember how absolutely happy you make me. I only hope it's evident when you're older.
You won't remember the snow days we spend together; it's hard work being at home with you, but it's such a treat.
You won't remember how tightly you hold my hand when you are trying to walk.
You won't remember how you try to climb over our laps to be close to us, yet you don't really know what you want once you're there.
You won't remember reaching out to touch the kitties and dog, but they'll be in your life for a few more years, I hope.
You won't remember learning to clap, say "daddy" and "doggy", or respond to our voices.
You won't remember how hard we laugh when you make a terrible face after trying a new, textured food. We're just trying to be good parents.
You won't remember any of these things. You won't have memories until you're a big older.
Luckily, I'll have all of these memories. I'll tell you about them whenever I can. I'll wish you could remember, but I'll also know how special it is that I'm the keeper of the moments. You'll make memories with me when you're older, and you'll keep them for your children when I'm gone one day.
I'll remember for you. You remember for me.
I love you, Charlie.
You won't remember how tightly you hold my hand when you are trying to walk.
You won't remember how you try to climb over our laps to be close to us, yet you don't really know what you want once you're there.
You won't remember reaching out to touch the kitties and dog, but they'll be in your life for a few more years, I hope.
You won't remember learning to clap, say "daddy" and "doggy", or respond to our voices.
You won't remember how hard we laugh when you make a terrible face after trying a new, textured food. We're just trying to be good parents.
You won't remember any of these things. You won't have memories until you're a big older.
Luckily, I'll have all of these memories. I'll tell you about them whenever I can. I'll wish you could remember, but I'll also know how special it is that I'm the keeper of the moments. You'll make memories with me when you're older, and you'll keep them for your children when I'm gone one day.
I'll remember for you. You remember for me.
I love you, Charlie.
