By Valerie Sawicki-Bellomo 
As we were decorating the tree last Christmas, my son dug to the bottom of a box and pulled out a Snoopy ornament. He set it off to the side quickly and continued his rifling. But I noticed the faint crack along the red jukebox that Snoopy stood beside.
In an instant, I was standing back in the kitchen of our first home watching my son wander in to ask, in the cutest toddler voice, if he could “pwess” the button on the ornament to play the music.
With gleeful excitement, he pressed too hard. The ornament slipped from his fingers and fell to the tile floor, cracking slightly. Heartbroken, he sank down and checked, through tears, if the music would still play.
My son did not remember any of this.
But as I told him the story, his eyes glistened and he ran to find his father, holding the ornament more carefully now, as if suddenly aware of its value.
That moment lingered with me. So much of childhood lives in the memory of caregivers long after it fades for children. And in those small, sudden recollections, the fleeting nature of childhood becomes almost tangible.
Like many mothers, I’ve accumulated an archive of moments that, in isolation, would seem insignificant: the smallest scrunch of a nose at the first taste of lime; the peals of laughter after discovering the comedy power of “butt”; the particular way a child mispronounces a word, that’s missed once they learn to say it correctly.
I’ll never forget my daughter looking down at her empty bowl of peach oatmeal and enthusiastically asking if she could have more “happy” meal.
What makes each of these moments special isn’t their individual significance, but how, when woven together, they tell the story of my children’s personalities taking shape. I try to preserve these moments in scrapbooks and photo albums, and in doing so, I’ve stumbled upon one of motherhood’s most powerful expressions: building a family narrative and passing on the folklore of who my children once were, and who they are still becoming.
As Mother’s Day approaches, I’ve been reflecting on this role as Chief Memory Officer for my family, and it’s called to mind a novel I once taught: Lois Lowry’s The Giver. I used to see it as a political warning, but now through the lens of motherhood, I view it more as a meditation on memory and parenting.
The novel is set in a dystopian society where emotion and memory have been removed in the name of stability and order. Life is wholly optimized, and the system is maintained by the receiver of memory.
The receiver, Jonas, carries what the rest of the community has given up: its memory of human history. To take on this role, he must learn not only what happened, but also how it felt—the ache of loss, the warmth of love, and the fear of the unknown. Tasked with the responsibility of carrying the load of the community’s collective experience, he begins to buckle under its weight as it taxes not just his mind, but his body.
This role, I realize now, bears a familiar shape to motherhood.
I think back to the first months after my son was born. Recovering from a C-section, stumbling through hourly feedings in a body that didn’t yet feel like mine, all while packing up to move into a new apartment with only a few hours of fragmented sleep keeping me going.
Life was physically and emotionally draining. Like the receiver of memory, I struggled with the emotional weight of what I was carrying and a near-constant internal monologue: Is he okay? Is he eating enough? Am I doing this right?
I often tell people that I can only appreciate those days by looking back. Only then can I experience the joy that was intertwined in those moments.
When I reflect on this, I understand that this is the most important work of motherhood. To absorb the early experiences our children will never remember, to hold onto them, process them, and when the time comes, give these pieces back to our children.
To be able to say, This is who you were. This is how it felt. This is how you became who you are.
Mothers have a unique ability to stitch together what would otherwise dissolve into isolated moments—cracked ornaments, mispronounced words, laughter that trails down a hallway—and bind them into a story.
I see now more truly what Lowry wanted us to consider: that memory doesn’t just preserve the past; it shapes the present. It gives weight to what might pass unnoticed, and mothers are the true Givers of society, returning those memories to our children as they grow so they can carry their story forward.
by Cameron Reeves Poynter 
by Jorrie Varney 
by Natasha Smith 
