I am the Curator

By Gretchen

My home is a museum. Admission is free, please touch the stuff, flash photography is allowed, you may eat in the exhibit halls, the bathrooms are located near the garage and at the top of the stairs. Parking is limited, however. If you break it, I’ll get the glue out. If you want to take it, let me wrap it up for you in Glad PressNSeal. If you think anything is valuable, you are delusional.

Late at night, when the exhibits sit in the dark and the volunteers are dreaming, I hear the echoes from the day rattling around. I gather them together and consider what shelves to place them upon. I categorize and analyze and commit them to memory. I am the curator.

“Tell us funny stories about when we were little!” my little ones like to ask.

“Tell us about the time we drove to California. Show us pictures of our first birthday parties. Tell us, show us, mommy.”

How priviliged I am at those moments. The kids may have been too young for memories, so I must fill in the blank spaces. In essence, I build their childhood memories when I tell the stories of their lives. I show them objects, toys, books from pre-memory. They hold these things dear—a teddy bear from newborn days or a dress from my daughter’s first Easter.

Facts and artifacts. The fact is Sam didn’t walk until he was almost 17 months. He loves to hear how he didn’t want to walk because he was such an amazing crawler.

The fact is Ryley had two surgeries and a hospitalization for an illness all before he was two. He takes in the stories and learns what he went through as a little guy. He must be strong! He must be brave! I don’t know what he takes away from the stories, exactly, but he likes to hear them.

The fact is Aidan began collecting birthday girl figurines on her first birthday. She has them lined up on a hutch in her room. She sees them daily. Fact and artifact collide—tell me about when I turned two, mommy—she asks while holding the figurine in her palm.

Joel will have the cast from his broken arm. Tommy will have a mile-high stack of drawings to sort through and admire some day.
When my grandmothers died, I watched each of my parents go through some of the things their mothers collected. The objects that meant the most weren’t the most valuable, the oldest, the prettiest. A certain picture, a brooch, a carved bowl, a baking dish, a clock—everything infused with meaning and memory beyond my comprehension. So I ask:

Dad, tell me about the clock and grandma and what made you tuck it under your arm the way you did when you left her house. What do you think about when you hear it’s ticking early in the morning?

Mom, tell me about that ring around your finger. I saw it on grandma, too. Where did she get it? What do you think about when you look down at your finger?

Show me. Can I hold it? I won’t break it. Tell me. Wow, that’s amazing. That’s funny. That makes me want to cry.

There was never a velvet rope in my childhood, or now.

I hope I never put one up in my own home.

Gretchen can also be found blogging at Lifenut.