Saturday, July 26, 2014


On Saturday morning, my husband was out getting a haircut and I (for a change) was attempting to enjoy my breakfast with limited disruptions. After rising from the table about three different times to refill juice cups, carry in bowls of berries for the kids and finally to wipe up the inevitable berry and juice spills, I was determined to spoil myself with three minutes of uninterrupted time with my coffee mug. I was so determined that I gave a two-year-old my phone.

Big mistake.
A few minutes later I panicked when I noticed that a precious video I had taken earlier in the week of my two boys in music class had been erased. This video made me happy, and now it had disappeared. After working for a couple of hours to try and retrieve it, my husband somberly reported back to me that the video had somehow not backed up and was gone.
At hearing this news, I immediately plummeted myself into the various stages of grief. I told my husband there was no way this could possibly be true. Call Apple! Call the President! Then anger. How could I have been so stupid as to have given my cell phone to a toddler?! I haven’t finished a cup of coffee in over five years, why did I have to attempt the impossible this morning!? After shedding a few tears (and asking if we could call the President one more time) I was finally willing to begin the process of accepting my loss.

If we’re all being honest, none of us has the time to sit and watch these videos and pictures that pile up on our phones. Most of them will probably never be viewed again. And yet in recent months these snapshots of life's little moments have become increasingly significant to me. I’m sure this is partly due to having recently lost my mom. She was the queen of taking cell phone pictures, and on her train ride home she would diligently text me a crazy amount of them from our day together. Of course, every one of these captured memories holds a significance I could never have imagined before she died.
The rational side of me (yes, it sometimes makes a cameo) knows that while I may have lost this 53 second video from music class, I did not lose the moment. I did not lose the memory. After “the incident” my five-year-old could see that I was visibly upset and tried to come to my rescue and console me.

“Mommy, I have a great idea. Why don’t we ask our teacher next week if we can sing the song again the exact same way, and then we can record it all over again.”
I smiled at my son’s sweet offer. I was saddened with the knowledge that moments are fleeting, and we can never get them back in the exact same way ever again. But I had also been reminded of something important. There will always be another song to sing.


1 comment:

  1. I have lost important stuff. But I think I became the opposite after my mom died. Long story short, I was boxed out pretty much anything of my mother's. I had to think of it as "just. stuff.". I read Mackenzie Phillips memoir and in it she talks about a wildfire that claimed all her mementos of her father. It was just gone. But she wasn't hurt and didn't die. Something about it clicked for me. It's all just. stuff. Even things that are sentimental. Some day we get old and die and then what- someone else may not find it sentimental. It will be just stuff. So I've changed my mindset to - it just doesn't matter.

    I also found out my mom confessed to her best friend that she threw away something very sentimental of mine by accident years ago. I was looking for it for 15 years! Meanwhile it's gone. Life hasn't changed any. I'd have liked to have it but in reality, it's not that important.

    I'm sorry about your video though. I know what it's like.