I Love You 200

When I was a kid, probably about three years old, I used to tell my family that I loved them 200 because 200 was the biggest number I knew.  Anytime someone told me they loved me, I replied, “I love you 200” and gave them a big hug.  I wasn’t trying to top them, like one person saying, “I love you” and the other saying “I love you more.”  It was just the only way I could express that I loved them as much as I knew how.  Whenever I hear someone use the word infinity like in the ad from the cell phone provider who shall remain nameless where the kid says “How about infinity times infinity?” it takes me back to my use of the number 200.  Two hundred was infinity to me. 

Not to say I’m a fad setter or that I’m a trendy sort of person (because I’m definitely not) but, my family used the “Love you 200” for many, many years as a sign off on letters.  Of course, that was back in the day when people actually wrote letters and postcards when they were away from each other for more than a few days.  Now, with email, instagram, texting and tweeting, who has the time or the characters to spend on writing “love you 200”?  One of my younger brothers was like the kid in the commercial and he improved my saying by adding to it; his addition was the plus sign: “love you 200+.”

old soul

 this guy has an old soul

Sometimes I feel like the absolute worst mother because my memory is so bad.  When my youngest son was around two years old, just barely talking, he said something that was so profound, so wise, that I knew he had an old soul.  It was something I told myself to remember, to write in his babybook.  I forgot to write it in his babybook.  Then I forgot exactly what it was he said.  All I could remember was that it was so wise beyond his years and that I never wanted to forget it.  Why couldn’t I have repeated the exact phrase or sentence he spoke so many times that it would have caught on like my childhood phrase did with my family?  I’ve heard my older kids retell the story of their younger brother saying something so profound, so wise at such a young age, but the story just isn’t complete because no one can repeat what it was he said.  I know it had something to do with God, or eternity, or the universe; not a topic most two years embark upon, but he did.  It was like it was knowledge that was embedded in his soul and came out of his mouth so matter-of-factly, left over thoughts from his time spent in my womb.  

I’m hoping that when I’m old and senile, if that day ever comes, his words will come back to me.  You know how people with Alzheimer’s don’t remember what happened twenty minutes ago, but they recall things from childhood like it was yesterday?  Well, maybe that little conversation we had will just jump right out of my subconscious and I’ll blurt it out like I had just heard him say it.  I’m counting on my kids recognizing what I’m talking about and maybe one of them will write it down for me.  Now don’t get me wrong; I’m not hoping I get Alzheimer’s, but if I do, maybe there will be a little spark of something positive to come out of it.  I just read an article http://www.medicaldaily.com/breastfeeding-reduces-alzheimers-risk-mothers-249247  that said women who breastfeed may have a lower risk of developing Alzheimer’s.  If that’s the case, then I may never remember what my little guy said.  However, my body doesn’t seem to follow general patterns.  I only had one out of five risk factors for breast cancer and I’ve already been there, done that.

I’m off to catch a plane now.  I’m sure I’ll be skipping tomorrow’s Flash!Friday prompt, so I’ll see you back here on Monday.  If you have any suggestions for topics, please comment.  I’m worried that after three weeks of steady blogging I’m already fretting over what to write about!




One comment

  1. My comment section is depressingly empty, so I’m going to add to it myself and hope it spurs someone else to join in! My statement above about sometimes feeling like the worst mother is balanced by remembering some of the things I feel like I did right. In our attic are those baby books I made and they are inside what we always called their baby boxes, plastic containers with their names marked on the front. Inside the boxes are all sorts of mementos from pictures to movie ticket stubs to cute little baby clothes to favorite t-shirts to birthday cards to early art work, you get the idea. I’m looking forward to the days when I can show my grandkids items from their parents’ childhoods. So, did this make anyone want to comment?

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