About 15 years ago, I crafted a lovely wooden box adorned with soft pastel hues. Inside lies a newspaper and an array of items, the specifics of which have faded from memory. I can only guess that there are some photographs tucked away. On top of the box rests a letter, sealed in an envelope bearing my daughter’s name and the note “To be opened on your 18th birthday.” This envelope is tied with a delicate ribbon. Her sister has a similar time capsule made two years later, both currently stored in their baby keepsake boxes in the crawlspace.
I recall the excitement I felt while creating these time capsules. I imagined the joy of watching my daughters discover them, pondering the memories encapsulated within. Perhaps there would be some odd items that would leave us all scratching our heads.
However, my concern lies with the letters. A little over a year before my eldest, Sarah, was born, I experienced a miscarriage. It was a heartbreaking time, and in search of closure, I penned a letter to that lost child, pouring out my emotions. Recently, I revisited that letter, and it was filled with a mixture of joy, sorrow, and love.
If my previous letter is any indication, the letters in the time capsules will overflow with emotion as well. I likely expressed the joy and anticipation of carrying my daughters, the overwhelming love I felt upon meeting them for the first time, and the happiness of our family unit. I might have included references to “your father and me” along with family photos. Those are the elements I now second-guess. I worry that exposing my daughters to the more painful truths of life all at once could be overwhelming. Reading those letters might force them to confront the contrast between their past and present, including the less pleasant memories like their parents’ divorce.
Despite all this, my daughters are thriving. Both have remained cheerful and well-adjusted, excelling academically, which is a testament to their resilience even as their peers navigate the ups and downs of adolescence.
At one point, the girls were aware of their time capsules but may have since forgotten about them. Now, I find myself weighing several options. One possibility is to open the capsules myself, reviewing the contents to decide if I should alter or remove specific references before they see them. Alternatively, I could wait until after their 18th birthdays when they might be better equipped to understand the complexities stirred by the letters.
Another option involves opening the first capsule when Sarah turns 18 to gauge her reaction; if it’s challenging, I could then decide what to do with her sister’s. However, this approach feels unfair, so I might rule it out. I could also let them open the capsules as initially planned and deal with the fallout as it comes. Finally, I could choose to never let them access those time capsules at all.
While none of these scenarios excite me, they seem more honest than pre-screening the letters before handing them over. When I sealed those envelopes and tied them to the boxes, it felt like I was gifting my daughters a piece of their future selves.
The challenge lies in determining when I should stop shielding them. Surely, there are enough challenges in life without me adding to their burdens. It may be beneficial for me to reflect on my original purpose for creating these time capsules. Children love hearing “The Story of You,” and my daughters often ask about their early years. They enjoy revisiting the funny anecdotes I’ve documented over the years.
By withholding or altering the time capsules, am I robbing them of a vital chapter in their story, or have I sufficiently captured their early lives through journals, photos, and those amusing stories? Each capsule represents a snapshot of truth from that time. Yet, they also reflect my feelings as a mother. Will understanding my emotions from that period change their perspective at 18? Ultimately, it feels like these letters are more about them than they are about me.
As I ponder this, I find myself leaning towards the idea of waiting a few more years. Perhaps the ideal moment for them to uncover the capsules will coincide with their own significant life experiences, mirroring the circumstances under which I created them. When my daughters encounter their own milestones, they may be better equipped to understand what I intended as “The Story of Us.”
In conclusion, navigating the emotional landscape of these time capsules has proven to be a complex journey. Understanding when to share my past experiences and feelings is a delicate balance, one that I hope to manage with care and love.
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