I am about to turn 50, which means two things are true at the same time.
One, time is moving faster than it used to.
Two, memory has absolutely no interest in cooperating with logic.
Because if you asked me what I remember from childhood, I would not start with milestones. I would not start with achievements. I would not start with anything that looks good written down.
I would start with a cup of coffee.
One cup. Two spoons. My brother and me. That is it.
I would tell you about sliding down the hill behind our apartment like gravity owed us something. About our first dog, who my brother loved deeply and who returned that love by hating me with real commitment. I would tell you about walking to school together in the snow, about sitting by a kerosene heater in the winter because staying warm felt like a group project.
I would tell you about riding my bike through all of Panama City with a freedom I would never allow my own kids today. About climbing trees. Dirt clod fights. Scraped knees that no one panicked over.
None of this was organized. None of it was scheduled. No one said, pay attention, this will matter later.
And yet here we are.
Which is why, now, in the middle of certain moments, I will lean over to Sarah and say, very quietly, “I think they are going to remember this.”
It is never during something impressive.
It is during laughter that runs too long. During conversations that drift. During moments where nothing productive is happening and no one is trying to optimize the outcome.
The kids are being themselves. We are not correcting. We are not multitasking. We are just there.
And I know, because I have lived long enough to know, that memory is not built on events. It is built on atmosphere. On whether a moment felt warm. Whether it felt safe. Whether it felt shared.
I do not remember the rules. I remember the feeling.
I do not remember the structure. I remember the closeness.
So when Miles is mid story and can barely get the words out because he is laughing at his own punchline. When Colin asks a question that comes out of nowhere and leads us somewhere unexpected. When Emma wants to show us something she made and it is clear this matters. When Sarah asks my perspective and the answer is honest even if it is not the one she hoped for.
That is when I feel it.
This is one of those moments.
And my job in that moment is not to improve it. It is not to document it. It is not to rush through it.
My job is to not interrupt it.
Because one day, my kids will be adults with their own random list. And none of it will make sense on paper. And none of it will sound important.
But it will be.
And if I am doing this right, they will not remember how busy we were or how efficient we tried to be. They will remember that we were there. That we stayed. That we noticed.
I think they are going to remember this.