One afternoon when Connor was in kindergarten, he came home from school, used the bathroom and called for me to help button his pants.
As I knelt down to help him, I asked, "Did your teacher have to help you today?"
"Yep."
"Did she have to help anybody else?"
Without missing a beat, he looked at me like I had asked the silliest question in the world.
"No," he said. "They don't have the same pants as me."
Y’all. Kid logic is undefeated.
I hadn't thought about that conversation in years. Then one morning, before I'd even finished my coffee, Facebook decided it was time.
There it was in my memories — a little story I'd posted all those years ago that instantly transported me back to that kitchen, that tiny pair of pants and that little boy who believed he was the only kindergartner in America wearing buttons.
I laughed just as hard as I had the first time.
Every day, Facebook offers me a choice: "See your memories." Some days, I don't even hesitate. Other days, I stare at that little notification and wonder if I'm emotionally equipped to revisit a random Tuesday from 11 years ago.
For anyone who has lost a spouse, a parent, a child, or watched a relationship end, those little "On This Day" notifications can feel less like a gift and more like emotional roulette. You never know whether you're about to laugh until you cry or just cry.
After my divorce, I stopped checking my memories for a while. Not because I wanted to erase those years. I didn't.
It was just hard to unexpectedly stumble across pictures of a family that looked so happy. Birthday parties. Beach trips. Ordinary evenings with the kids. Beautiful moments that belonged to a chapter of my life that had already ended.
But eventually, curiosity got the better of me. I started peeking into the past again, one memory at a time. And I'm glad it did. Because tucked in between the harder memories are little pieces of our family's story that I never want to lose.
The ones that catch me off guard the most are the videos of Findlay.
From the time he was a toddler until about kindergarten, he was absolutely fearless. Silly. Outgoing. The kind of kid who could make an entire room laugh without even trying.
Life has a way of changing all of us.
He's older now. More thoughtful. More reserved. More easily embarrassed than the little boy who used to wear a sparkly gold vest everywhere.
But every now and then, when he's with people he completely trusts, that goofy little boy comes back. He’ll say something ridiculous and laugh with his whole body. For a few minutes, he’ll relax and let me take a picture of him with his double drink helmet on.
Those moments don't happen nearly as often anymore and maybe that's why I treasure them so much. I'm grateful that I still get to see that side of him.
The memories also remind me of the years that I stayed home with my children.
Depending on the day, they can send my emotions in completely different directions. If I'm already being hard on myself, I wonder if I spend enough time with them now. I wonder if work has stolen too many afternoons. I wonder how they grew up while I was busy making deadlines.
But if I'm feeling a little kinder to myself, I remember something else. I remember how incredibly fortunate I was to have those years. That I got to watch them grow.
I got to be there for scraped knees, bedtime stories, preschool crafts and all the wonderfully ordinary moments that become the foundation of a childhood. Those years helped build the relationship we still have today, even though they're older and need me in completely different ways.
Maybe that's why memories feel so bittersweet. They're proof that something beautiful happened.
They're also proof that time keeps moving whether we're ready or not.
Lately, I've started saving my favorite "On This Day" photos to my phone. My plan is to finally print them instead of letting them live inside an app. I want photo albums. Frames on the wall. Pictures my kids can flip through years from now without needing a password.
I've realized that social media shouldn't be the only keeper of our memories. And on the days when I know I don't have the emotional energy to revisit the past, I don't feel guilty about skipping them anymore. The memories that matter most are safely tucked away somewhere else.
Growing older is a privilege that not everyone gets. And neither is the privilege of watching your children become adults.
Having enough beautiful memories to make you cry is a privilege too.
I think that's the tradeoff. The more deeply we love, the more we'll miss the moments that have already passed.
So tomorrow morning, when Facebook asks if I'd like to see my memories, I might hesitate. But I'll probably click anyway. Because somewhere between the tears and the laughter is another little piece of our story that deserves another look.
