Remembering the many firsts of our lives

Home sick with a stomach virus Monday, and apparently somewhat bored, my 9-year-old daughter Katie dug out the old video made the day she was born, and in the days that followed. Laying aside for the moment how unfathomable it is that this tape was made nearly 10 years ago (eek!), it was a nice bit of nostalgia.

It’s interesting to me how well we remember the various firsts in our life. Though it was nearly a decade ago, I remember Katie’s first days well. She was our first-born, and as such, her arrival is stuck in my memory with indelibility. I remember the moment she was born, and the hours that followed. I remember how she was loaded into an ambulance the next day and taken to a larger hospital with a case of pneumonia. I remember how well she bounced back against the infection, only spending a few days in the NICU, and coming home a week later.

For my 6-year-old son, Drew, I remember his first day for the excitement it brought. Drew came into this world a full 35 minutes after we arrived at the hospital. The doctor didn’t even make it time for the delivery. When then-2-year-old Katie saw him for the first time a few hours later, I remember the first thing she said: “I love him.”

I remember Katie’s first steps, a series of about six or seven taken at the edge of our driveway. The feat was witnessed by her mother, me and the neighbor boy, Josh. For whatever, reason, however, I don’t remember Drew’s first steps. This is probably because Drew went from crawling, then to walking, then to running at a full sprint, in what seemed like a matter of hours. And he really hasn’t stopped moving since, save for the moments he spends playing the Gameboy.

I remember the first time Katie read a book by herself, a book about a dog trying to cool off, called “Hot Dog.” I remember Drew’s first laugh, a cackle that came in response to his big sister’s silly antics.

I remember some of my own firsts as well. I remember my first day of elementary school, though my memories of this one are pretty foggy — I remember being surprised, but not upset, when my mom told me she was leaving. I remember my first days of high school and college — chaotic days filled with uncertainty and insecurity.

I remember the first time I visited Arkansas. I was a college student, en route to Memphis for the day. And I’m sad to say, it wasn’t a great first impression. Stopping at a convenience store in West Memphis, we encountered rude service from the store clerk, and a disgusting mess in the bathroom. Luckily, my impressions of Arkansas have only gone up since then.

I remember the first time I walked into a big-time football stadium. I was with my dad, going to see the University of Illinois play at the University of Iowa. I remember being taken aback at the bright colors, which were much more vibrant than what I had seen on television.

I remember the first time I laid eyes on the Grand Canyon. And the Lincoln Memorial. And the Rocky Mountains. And Mount Rushmore. And Cinderella Castle. All were awe-inspiring in their own way.

What I think is interesting, though, is that for all the time we spend recalling "firsts," we almost never remember "lasts." For instance, I can’t remember the last time I actually carried my daughter in my arms. I can’t remember the last time I rocked my son to sleep for the night. I can't remember the last time either sat in a high chair, or the last time I was called "Daddy," instead of "Dad." It's stuff like this that fills some of the fondest recollections of our lives, so it's odd — and a bit sad — that such things disappear from our daily routine without fanfare or even so much as a notice.

Then again, I also can’t remember the last dirty diaper that I changed for either of my children. Some things are worth forgetting.