Life story is one worth telling

There is a Radio Flyer wagon in our living room. It came with me when we combined houses. I’ve used it to carry groceries home from the store, to transport my headboard and footboard when I changed apartments within the same complex. At one time it was a book shelf in my writing studio. And now, it holds plants and the books each of us in the family are currently reading.

One recent evening our youngest son scooted under the wagon, between the two axles, and began his upgrades. Held in place by magnets, two plastic Slinkies became shock absorbers. I’m certain his inspiration came from watching Grease the night before; he woke up the next morning singing “Greased Lightening,” after all. It was the first time he had seen the movie, a favorite of both Molly and me from the days we were just about his age.

It wasn’t the first time we shared something old-school with our kids, but it was the first time I realized that they don’t laugh at us. They don’t think the movies we cherish are lame or scoff at the music that transports us back to high school.

Last weekend we crowded in front of the computer screen with our teenager and searched ’80s rock videos on YouTube. He was a bit perplexed by some of the fashion, but in retrospect, so were we. Mostly what he wanted to know was what we were doing when we listened to certain songs and did we ever wear clothes like that.

Both boys like to hear stories. But when it comes to me, it feels like more than that. They have lived for 10 and 14 years, respectively, with a sense of who Molly is. But when I answer their questions and tell them things about myself, they are amassing my history. Especially with our oldest, I can tell he’s trying to get a fuller notion of who I was before becoming a part of his family.

I like it. And now that I get it, I’ll try to be more detailed for them. Sometimes I catch myself speaking in generalities because I assume my life isn’t that interesting. It’s in these moments that I am not giving myself credit for being their mom.

If I was their biological mom, I’m sure I wouldn’t hesitate to help them feel a part of my stories, to know what led me to the point of giving birth to them. But as essentially their stepmom, I hold back.

The questions were aplenty last weekend, now that I think about it. One being to hear the story of when Molly first noticed me, which led to what our first date was like. The kids have heard it before, yet they were eager to listen again. They must learn something new each time, or feel just that much more connected to the moment our paths became irreversibly entwined.

Perhaps it’s something like hearing about the day they were each born, two stories that they ask for a couple of times a year. Our family was born in those early days of Molly and I discovering each other. Yet, the boys are astute enough to realize their moms had many years without kids, and without the family we are now, and so are seeking that backstory.

What I ought to do next is pull out some photo albums.

Then again, that might be the thing that finally gets them to laughing!