Here's What She Remembers From Yesterday

I read an article recently about the parenting heartbreak of attempting to create memories. It's fruitless -- for instance: your kids won't remember the beautiful terrain of a cross country ski trip, the names of the peaks and the family togetherness. Rather, they'll recall the blisters from ski boots, how their brother pinched his finger in the camp chair and passed out, how the guy at the burger place let them roll balls across the pool table.

Here's what Nora recalls about yesterday, in order of seeming importance:

1. There were horses, and she wanted to ride them. They didn't have big eyes and they didn't have teeth, and she couldn't ride them because the men were. (Mama's version: for two minutes at the beginning of the day, there were three horses about 30 yards away; Nora was terrified and refused to go closer to pet them when mama offered. She ran the other way and promptly -- so it seemed -- forgot them.)

2. She ate ice cream. She wanted the blue flavor, but mama said no. She really wanted the blue flavor. Mama gave her rainbow. She wanted BLUE. (Mama's version: Nora happily chose between strawberry or rainbow sherbet, because mama advised her that bubblegum isn't very good. Nora ate every last drip of sherbet and kept declaring, "This makes me HAPPY!")

3. The waves chased her, and mama's pants got wet. (Mama's version: the waves chased us, and mama's pants got wet.)