Olympic Thoughts

This is a little something I wrote after a night of watching the 2006 Winter Olympics, four years ago. I still get emotional watching the Olympics, but I can't believe how much my life has changed between the time I wrote this and today. Still, I thought it was worth posting:

"I'm tired and sick, and I just shed tears over watching the Olympic gold and silver pairs figure skaters compete and place. How I can watch athletes I know nothing about compete in just about any Olympic sport and yet feel both their pain and their joy as if they were family, and almost always end up with tears of some kind in my eyes . . . I'll never know. I just love the Olympics. My most prominent memory of the Olympics has to do with some summer in the 80s on family vacation, and when my parents weren't in the room, we'd switch over to MTV. It was the days when Michael Jackson's thriller was the coolest thing ever and Mary Lou was every [child's] envy. We'd be lounging around on the beds in our wet swimsuits--another no-no and drinking pop and eating candy . . . ah, those were the days."
[written February 13, 2006 on my former blog]

I love this little childhood memory. Something about the Olympics, as with many things, makes me feel nostalgic.

things always sound better in my head . . .

. . . if I could just hook my mind up to an electronic device that would somehow transcribe my thoughts for me, it sure would save a lot of time and energy--not to mention it would sound a whole lot better. When I actually sit down to write, I just sort of draw a blank about all those things I wanted to write about. Or, more often, the subject that was so interesting in my head suddenly dulls on paper.

There is something about the human mind and memory (at least mine) that keeps a moment alive better than any words can do justice to. And I have a lot of moments I like to relive and think about in my mind. Because these moments make up my life. And I love life. And I don't want to forget it. Especially moments with my little boy who is growing up in front of my very eyes. My very tiny baby boy who did not even fill in his newborn clothes and who wore three-month onesies forever is now towering above other children his age. When did this happen? The moments with him are beyond precious, and I fear if I don't hold on to them somehow--in some way--these precious moments will slip right by and I'll forget all about them as I try to soak up the next moment with him. And I fear I won't remember everything I want to tell him about who he was and what he did as a baby, a toddler, a preschooler. Because as soon as I get used to him and everything he's "into," he's suddenly on to the next thing, and I mourn the old things he's left behind while I embrace the new things he's reaching for and accomplishing in his world.

I keep a journal for him. It's not all I would like it to be, but like I always say, if I wrote down everything I wanted to remember about this little boy and his life, I'd be spending all my time writing instead of being with him. So it is what it is, and although the words are pale and colorless compared to the actual days, events, or milestones, I find that all I need to do is read those words on paper--or screen--to be reminded of the memory--the sounds, the smells, the tastes, the weather, the laughter, the people involved. So, this is what words do for me.

Sort of in the same way that a picture, no matter how good, can never really fully capture the spirit, the personality, the essence of a child . . . but I take the picture anyway--and often. Because this mind of mine that can paint and relive memories so vividly is also forgetful at times. And I don't ever want to forget. And so I take lots of pictures. And I write. And the pictures and words help the moments live on, even if imperfectly. And I am thankful.