Over the Thanksgiving break, my mother was reminiscing about life before two of her boys went off to college. It was sentimental in nature, mostly because she hadn’t seen my brother and I since the fall break, which must have been forever. She commented about how it was nice to cook meals for more than three, which must have been an adjustment after my twin and I left.

The story that she told actually dates back to around when my little brother was born. We were living in Madison, New Jersey. It’s part of North Jersey if that makes any difference. She recalled back with great vivid detail about how we lived right near the elementary school and would see children march in from the upstairs window of my bedroom. Most importantly, was the park adjacent to the house. Dodge Field, complete with a playground basketball court, baseball field, and really anything that fits the suburban locality.

The story really began with her taking my twin and me on a stroll through the park. My twin brother was feeling under the weather- your stereotypical snotty and sick kid who cried, and myself being overly energetic and excitable as most toddlers are at that age. It must have been when I was three, maybe even earlier. My little brother- she couldn’t recall whether she was pregnant with him at the time, or if he had been newly born and was thus strapped to her chest in one of those baby carriers. It really accelerates when my energetic tiny self, ends up running into the baseball field as a practice or game is going on.

While that may sound simple, it was hard to imagine. My mother, stressed with almost bloodshot eyes with the existence of a newborn weighing on her, sleepless nights, coupled with one sick kid crying and holding onto her hand, and the other running off right into the middle of an ongoing session on the baseball field. She chased after me and fortunately, she was able to round me up once again, but she recalls that as one of the most exhausting but also memorable moments in our time at Madison.

Now, while the story might seem almost frightening, and simultaneously, simple. It serves as an important story to my mother because it reminds her of simpler, albeit exhausting, times when she had all three of her boys. It wasn’t easy for her or my dad when my twin and I would trade off crying, or even team-up with wails that could echo through the neighborhood. But it was also sweetening when she could carry both of us in her arms at the same time, or when she’d come upstairs and find us napping after snacks in the middle of the day. She reminisces about these stories sometimes, and while it gives insight into the kind of little monster I might’ve been as a child, it also gives insight into just how much my mother cares about me and my brothers.