This is often listed as one of the major problems of old age. I would have to agree with this, but from a different angle than is often meant. Of course, I cannot remember where I put my glasses; and, of course, I rush into a room in a great hurry only to find I cannot remember why I am there; and, of course, I forget the name of someone I have known for 50 years. But that is not what I think is the real forgetfulness of aging.
The real amnesia is in not remembering what life was really like in that long ago past. Chances are your babies did not sleep through the night the day they came home from the hospital, nor did your young children clean their plates every night with enthusiasm even when it included Brussels sprouts, nor did your teenagers respect all your rules and welcome with delight any suggestions from their greatly admired parents. But it often seems as if my contemporaries remember their long-ago family life in just that way.
When I have the urge while out and about, to shake my head at some family scene unfolding in front of me, I always think back over the years to a long-ago shopping trip that is etched in my memory. I was accompanied by my two-year-old, heavy with the pregnancy of our second child, a child that would be born while my husband was in Vietnam. The two year old had rushed ahead of me to look through the railings at the fascinating sight of an escalator whisking people up and down its moving steps. As I waddled behind her to catch up, she stuck her head through the bars of the railings for a better look. While the bars moved smoothly over her ears as her head went in, those same appendages stopped her from pulling her head back out. Her wails could be heard over the whole store as they reverberated in the empty space of the escalators. As I lowered my ungainly bulk to her level to try and help extricate her, two older woman rising up the escalator in our direction, looked at me with disdain and then at each other shaking their heads. They made it clear this situation would NEVER have arisen in their day. I flushed with embarrassment, freed the sobbing child, and left the store as fast as I could, feeling defeated and alone.
I hope that now I am on the other end of the spectrum, that I have not built a wall made up of how-it-was-in-my-day. Can mothers and two-year-olds really have changed all that much? Oh, that mom may be dressed in body hugging yoga pants, pushing a stroller that has more features that your first car, and the two year old may have on sneakers that light up when he runs or be holding a special drinking cup that you and I could not even manage to fill, but underneath it all the need for understanding and compassion still remains. This is a two-year-old. Remember??????