For better or for worse, I am the kind of mother that imagines what my children may remember of me. Like when they’re older and the mother I am now becomes the mother I was then. I try not to resent myself for not being present; but I also, strangely, seek solace in knowing the mistakes I made when they were much younger will be diluted by the ones that I make now, by time, and soon enough, these days too will dissolve into a hormonal teenage haze. 

But what’s there to say of the good things? The wild things? The way I queue up the music, buy them strange knick knacks, have wild dance parties, or take day trips for the hell of it? For all the things I do wrong, I imagine them recalling the things I got right.