The Stories We Tell - How Will My Kids Remember Me?

This is, “The Stories We Tell,” a weekly series of true accounts in all things motherhood. These 100% vulnerable, raw and ferociously honest tales are taken from the monthly LA based storytelling event, Mothers Unleashed. This holiday season, Jennie asks us to think about the passage of time and what we’ll leave behind for our children, just as our mothers did for us. Jennie is a playwright, screenwriter and actress. Check out her one-woman play, Under the Jello Mold.

As a new mother, there are so many questions: “I’m supposed to sleep when my baby sleeps - but what if my baby only sleeps for short intervals?” “How much sleep can a human lack and remain functional?” “Will I ever sleep again?” And, “Sleeping… is that even a thing?” 

Years go by, somehow survival happens, and a new question arises, now that the child is grown: “Are you coming for Thanksgiving?”

You should know, if you ever come to my house, it is not a home full of tchotchkes. I don't have time to dust things, and unlike the Bradys, my kids do play ball in the house. I don’t keep things very well. I don't even have my stuffed animals from my childhood. I only have one thing of my grandmother’s.

She used to make beaded flowers. I remember my mom driving us into the city to go to the bead store with her. It seemed to me that there was an entire district in New York city completely devoted to making beaded flowers. She had them all over her apartment and she used to gift us with a pot of beaded flowers every year.

It drove my mother crazy because where was she going to put all these little pots of beaded flowers? How would she break it to my grandmother that getting a new potted plant every year meant she would have to throw an older one away? Eventually, they all went away. All I have is one flower. A single red rose, and I keep it in a small box with some other singular items from my past. My Mickey Mouse watch. A photo of my dog from when I was a little girl. A box of my children’s baby teeth.

There's a very practical reason for not keeping a lot of things. I have a small house. I just don’t have the space for a lot of stuff.

There's another reason, as well. I used to have a collection of my mother’s jewelry. She gave me a lot of her stuff while she was still alive – even though she knew I wasn’t really planning on wearing any of it in the immediate future. But she liked to remind me of how valuable it was, where it came from, the history of it, and to check in on me – to make sure I locked it up safe. Of course. It was locked. In the safe. But one day, we were burglarized. They broke into the safe. And took all the jewelry. I never told my mother. It would have killed her on the spot. I was upset. For a day. And then, I was relieved. I didn’t have to worry about the goddamned jewelry anymore. I didn’t have to think about it. I didn’t have to spend one more ounce of mental energy on it because it didn’t exist in my world anymore. It was gone.

I decided having less is better. Hence, no tchotchkes.

However, my mother was a great lover of tchotchkes. She had cherubs, paperweights, enamel figurines, goblets, coin collections, and miniature monuments. She had a display cabinet for her treasures, so dust and dirty little children’s fingers couldn’t reach them. And these weren't merely knick-knacks you pick up at a highway off-ramp. These were high-class, collectibles; the kind of things that came with a certificate of authenticity. It had a limited-edition number printed somewhere on it. Certainly, it was an item that would be of immense value in the future. It wasn’t merely some bauble; it was an investment! Something you would be able to sell at auction to an eager buyer someday. Maybe even show off on Antiques Roadshow. Which was why she said to me, “Never, ever, ever throw away your Holly Hobbie lunchbox.” I didn’t throw it away. I think it went for about $3 at a garage sale, but that's a story for another day.

I'm telling you this because the aforementioned grown son, came to me and handed me one of the collectibles my mom had given to him: a small, lacquered, music box. According to the certificate of authenticity (which, of course, she gave to him as well), it was a Halcyon Days enamel box purchased at the Metropolitan Opera, in an edition limited to 750, and this was box number 17. Actually, I didn’t need the certificate to tell me anything. I remember this box really well. My mother loved this thing because it represented her connection to opera, which made her feel really classy. She grew up in a pretty low-class environment – a roadside motel with rooms that rented by the hour. So being able to afford to go the opera really meant a lot. I remember her telling me about the scene on the box: La Boheme. One of her favorites. How it reminded her of being in Paris. How we climbed the steps of Montmartre. My mom bought a painting from an unknown artist. My brother has that painting now. The artist is very known and someday my brother will get a lot more than $3 for it.

So, my son came to me two weeks ago, and handed me this box, and asked me if I wanted it.

I said to him, “Don't you want it?” He kind of shrugged his shoulders. I said, “But Grandma gave it to you.”

And he said, “I have nowhere to put it.”

This is true. His new apartment in Koreatown could be described as petite, which is a kind way of saying his IKEA bed has no storage underneath, nor is there enough room in the bedroom for any kind of dresser that could accommodate a surface, since the rest of their things need to be piled on top of whatever space remains. This is not the kind of place an enamel music box would be appreciated. It would likely not even survive.

But am I afraid my son will forget Grandma? Not possible.

But what do I do with this box? I don’t have a cabinet. I have to put it on one of my shelves. So, where does it go? It goes on the shelf next to the other little enamel box that used to be my mother's. The one she gave to me years ago, like she gave this one to Harry. It’s got Kermit the Frog sitting on a stump, playing a banjo, and painted around the side are the lyrics to the Rainbow Connection. When you open it up, there’s a little enamel rainbow inside.

If I kept all my mother’s things, how will I have room for my own things? After all, I need to have some things for my kids to remember me by, right?

What things are they going to remember me with? How will my kids remember me? What will they remember? How will my kids remember me?

Their friends will come over and say, “Hey, what’s the deal with the cracked phone screen on the mantle?”

“Oh, that was my mom’s. It the one thing I remember her by.”

Or, they’ll just have a large pile of crap piled up on their coffee table. “Why is there a pile of shit on the table?”

“It’s in honor of my mom’s desk. It reminds me of her every time I look at it.”

Maybe they’ll have it shellacked -- turn it into a piece of art. Then, one day in the future, they’ll sell it a garage sale for $3.

I remember my mom every time I walk into a department store and smell White Linen. Or Murphy’s Oil Soap. Or the smell of a cold morning through a window screen, since my mother would always open her window in the morning, no matter how frickin’ cold it was outside. I remember my mom every night when I take my earrings off, because she’s still reminding me that I could bleed to death in my sleep if the posts poke me in the artery. She personally knew someone that this happened to. And if you don’t believe me, look it up.

So, I don’t need the jewelry. Or the music box. Or the tchotchkes. Or any of the things. If they all burned up in a fire, I would still remember my mother. In fact, as I would sweep through the burnt remains, she would be right over my shoulder telling me how to hold the dustpan. My mother always said to leave a room cleaner than the way you found it. My younger son can’t walk past a piece of trash in the street without picking it up. When he does, I know whose voice he’s hearing in his head.

What will my kids remember about me? Hopefully, it won’t be things – because my things are a mess. My desk – which my oldest once described as looking like "it got hit by a thousand tornadoes," my reusable cup that I’m always leaving behind everywhere, and yes, Mom, my hair (which I inherited from you – it’s a problem).

I just want them to remember the time. Which flies. It’s true. Don’t blink. Cherish the moments. Don’t waste time. Leave the world cleaner – but if your desk is messy… eh. I’ll clean it after Thanksgiving. My son is coming. That’s all that matters.