This. Forever. Please.

A few months ago while searching for something in a box of my children’s magical memories (school papers, pictures, artwork, journals, and such) I found a paper my oldest made in kindergarten. If you have school-age or older kids, then you know the paper. They all make one, and most moms dissolve into laughter and tears reading their little one’s innocent thoughts such as, “My mom is 8 feet tall and weighs 250 pounds. Her favorite thing to do is call my dad an a$$hole. Her favorite food is wine.” Although, I kind of remember the ones my younger kids made, I hadn’t seen this one in almost 20 years. One line grabbed me: My mom is good at doing handstands.

Pardon me?

I don’t remember doing many handstands past age 12 or 13, so when I asked my daughter if she remembered what it meant, she said, “You were good at all the tricks (cartwheels, handstands, etc.)” I have no recollection of my daughter being impressed by any “tricks” I could perform.

So many times, I’ve thought: I’ll never forget this, and then I do. I hear my youngest child’s baby voice on an old video and remember how she said “busgetti” and “breaftist” and “ambleeance” — spaghetti, breakfast and ambulance. I stumble upon a note my son wrote when he was 4 and remember how he used to scrawl angry rants on his leftover Spiderman Valentines and launch them into the living room like tiny enemy missiles when he was mad. I find a book my oldest daughter “wrote” before she could write and wonder if someday she’ll show it to Oprah or Marie Forleo or Zibby Owens when…