apparently i remember too much

my sister tells me that i may remember too much of our childhood. like the fact that we determined that the combination of blue, green, and purple was by far the holy trinity of color schemes. or that we would rush home from church in order to reenact what we were certain our cats had been doing while we were away--holding their own sacrament meetings.

i, however, feel that these memories are what keep me sane in the midst of all the chaos that has become my daily life. in fact, i am fairly certain that one of these memories recently saved my personal sanity. as i was walking around the hospital at work the other night, trying desperately to calm myself from the fury that naturally results from poor workplace treatment, i was suddenly struck with a vivid memory of my father.

you have to understand, i was terrified of my father as a child. i couldn't really tell you why; my father is absolutely wonderful, but he frightened me nonetheless. now, i have always recognized a lot of the amazing gifts that my dad gave me: a strong work ethic, a distinct sense of right and wrong, an intense love for books, and an amazing example of charity in unexpected environments. however, the other night none of these were coming to mind. i just remembered my father carrying me. you know, when i'd fall asleep in the car, on the couch, or even on the floor (those who know me well know that i can--and do--fall asleep most anywhere while doing most anything). the more i thought about it, the more my mind was permeated with childhood memories of the countless times that my dad would carry me from one inconvenient sleeping position to my bedroom, carefully treading the whole way in order to not wake me.

many years and two herneated discs--bart's--later, my dad has stopped carrying me to bed. it could be the fact that we live hundreds of miles away from each other or maybe even that i now make jesse carry me to bed (much to his dismay). last summer, however, at least 12 years after our last careful walk, my dad carried me to bed again. i was a pathetic wreck--fresh from the oral surgeon's office--i got my wisdom teeth out roughly seven years behind the national average-- filled with drugs and crying out of sheer confusion (note to self: becca + anesthesia = no good). this time, dad couldn't pretend to be quiet--he was a little more out of shape and apparently i have grown an inch or two. i'm sure that if i could watch it again, i'd probably laugh at him bumbling down the stairs with me weeping uncontrollably in his arms. strangely enough, this may go down in my personal all-time favorite moments in history. i liked having my daddy carry me to bed again; there was something reassuring about it...

so, i may remember too much--stretch pants, mariah carey impersonations--but i like it that way. after all, my memories are all i'll have in 50 years when i have been robbed of my ravishing good looks and stunning intellect.