Gray Hairs and Memories

While we waited in the car today, I was getting sentimental.

“Do you remember when we went to Canada and we stayed in that beautiful hotel and went to the art museum?”

“Noooo.” He says this slow and drawn out because as he’s answering me, my TBP is leaning close from the backseat, trying to pull out another gray hair from the back of my head.

“Ouch! That was totally more than one!”

He laughs and I can tell he’s already searching for another. Truthfully, he doesn’t have to look too hard to find other gray hairs. There’s plenty these days.

Some of those grays are from the challenging days where “No” was a high-frequency word.

Some appeared from my mother’s accident and the months of us collectively holding our breath.

Some from the loss of our terrier that we still miss and the never-ending potty training of a new stubborn pup.

Some from the misunderstanding and mislabeling that still impacts my son’s self-esteem.

“You remember when we went to the ocean, right?”

“Nope.” His answer is quick and flat. He must know this is surprising. After all, we just went to the ocean the weekend my mother was hurt.

“That can’t be! You remember the hot tub and the big house…”

“Kindof…prepare yourself. Here’s another gray one!”


As I examine the longer strand of hair that he’s just presented me like a gift, I think about the earlier years.

There’s so much he doesn’t remember-this is both good and bad.

“We haven’t done anything fun like that lately. You know…fancy place, comfy beds, swimming pool & room service.”

I thought about this and he was right. Things have seemed a bit much lately.

“We have to plan something soon, don’t we?”

He smiles. “Totally.”

Just minutes later he asks, “Can we go home yet? You know home’s my favorite place ever!”

I smiled. “Mine too.”

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