Just three weeks before her due date, she drove alone to a routine doctor’s appointment. As she shuffled through the doctor’s office doors, she felt everyone’s eyes suddenly shift to her—although this wasn’t a new occurrence. Her slender 5’8″ frame supernaturally supported a massively protruding belly, making her appear as a walking physics phenomenon to anyone who caught a glimpse of her.
Although she didn’t know her baby’s gender yet, based on the sheer size of her belly, she felt safe to assume it was a big and healthy baby boy. She was eager to learn how close her son was to entering the world—sooner rather than later, she hoped.
It felt nearly impossible to get comfortable these days. She shifted awkwardly on the exam table as the nurse opened the door. With squinted eyes and a befuddled look, the nurse observed her with curious scrutiny.
“You’re having twins,” she said matter-of-factly. “Where’s the ultrasound?”
But there wasn’t one. The doctor had never ordered one. Like my mother, he was convinced she was having one large baby boy. At that appointment, after much arguing, she demanded the long-overdue ultrasound. And in a darkened room, just three weeks before her due date, she would find out that she was, in fact, having twins.
One hot July morning in 1988, my twin sister and I were born at 6 pounds, 10 ounces and 5 pounds, 9 ounces, respectively—two perfectly healthy baby girls. What ensued next was a year’s worth of joyously chaotic days and grueling sleepless nights. During that time, my mom faithfully attempted to keep a memory book for my sister and me—recording important milestones, our favorite things, and weekly happenings. But as she tried to juggle double diaper changes and round-the-clock feedings while building a business at the same time, the memory books sat regretfully on the shelf.
Twenty-six years later, she became a grandma for the first time—and again the year after that, and the year after that, and the year after that. Four grandchildren in four years, two from each of her daughters. After each grandchild was born, she began a memory book for them, but it was different this time. Not only did she have the wisdom to understand the sacredness of these memories, but she finally had the time and space to keep them faithfully—and has been doing so for the last decade.
These books hold so much more than the major milestones in her grandchildren’s lives, though. When my son does something sweet for his sister, I text my mom. When my daughter finally learns the word she’s been struggling to read, I text my mom. When my kids say something kind, hilarious, witty, or wise—I text my mom. When they tell me their fears, hopes, and dreams for the future, I text my mom.
The big and small, the seemingly insignificant—they all get texted by me and recorded into their memory books by their grandma. And when she visits, as she so often does, she records her time with them—mornings at the library, lunchtime picnics at the park, afternoon card games, and bedtime books. It all matters.
When they each turn 21, they’ll receive what I can only imagine will be more than a dozen volumes of these handwritten memory books. These memories will serve as prized puzzle pieces, invaluable clues to their past selves. My daughter will read about a generous and kind little 5-year-old girl. My son will thumb through the pages of a bright and determined 8-year-old boy. They will be reminded of who they were—and who they still are. And I can’t help but think that at 21, it just might be when they need to be reminded the most.
They’ll read about the time their grandma spent with them, learning that she potty-trained them (thanks, Mom!), and spent a summer teaching them how to swim. They’ll discover their love for reading sprouted from the dozens of library visits and countless hours of stories while cuddled up on the couch with their “Gogo.”
Their spouses will meet a version of them they would never know otherwise. And when they have their own children, they’ll be able to travel back in time to any given age and introduce them to their past selves.
These warmly kept memories will deepen family connections and strengthen generational bonds for decades to come. These sacred snapshots in time, seemingly insignificant moments destined to be forgotten, are now forever immortalized because a devoted grandma lovingly collected and kept them safe for all those years.
by Elizabeth Dardes 
