It’s easy to feel forgettable.
And being forgotten is terrifying, isn’t it?
I don’t want to be left off the email list when someone is organizing a play date. I don’t want my friends to wonder what I’ve been up to lately. I don’t want my blog to fall under someone’s “Read When I Have Nothing Else To Do & I’ve Already Watched All the Reruns of Law & Order: SVU on TBS” folder. I don’t want to be written out of my parents’ wills. (Just kidding, Dad.)
I want to spread my words so they resonate with people, ringing in their ears long after. I want others to remember me, even if they’re just remembering to invite me to the splash pad.
I don’t want to be forgettable; I want to leave a legacy.
My daughter has taken to rocking her dolls and stuffed animals to sleep. Earlier today I caught her doing that to a tower of Legos.
She walks around with a toy cradled in her little arms, gently swaying it back and forth whispering, “Hey, hey, hey, shhhh.”
The comfort she is copying, the softness in her voice, the way she presses her cheek against a pink bunny or multi-colored blocks all remind me of the way I cradle my own children, smoothing down their baby fine hair, nestling them in that sweet, safe spot between my chin and my chest, that spot that tells them they are loved beyond measure, and not just by the arms encircling them.
And as I watched my daughter carefully tuck her stuffed elephant in beneath a tee-shirt-turned-blanket, I caught a glimpse of my legacy.