<a href="http://www.halfwaytonormal.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/03/sbday.jpg"><img class="alignnone size-medium wp-image-314" title="sbday" src="http://www.halfwaytonormal.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/03/sbday-538x398.jpg" alt="" width="538" height="398" /></a>

I developed a hunger for nostalgia as a little girl. Luckily, I also had the sort of childhood capable of staving off that type of hunger.

Family camping trips, complete with sing-alongs around the fire. Cross country skiing in the woods of Northern Michigan, followed by hot chocolate and games of Yahtzee in my grandparents' cabin. I'll admit—some of the memories are picturesque to the point of being over the top.

As an adult, I'm much more realistic about the years under my parents' roof. <strong>I know I'm very lucky to have the childhood I had, but I also realize every day wasn't filled with memory-making magic.</strong> There were plenty of tears, bouts of arguing, and a myriad of disappointments, all punctuated by moments of worry and doubt. It was, on the whole, a very real childhood: a mix of wonderful, good, and not-so-good moments.
<h4>Uh-oh: Mama's on a memory-making mission (and it won't work)</h4>
When I mix my predilection for nostalgia with my maternal instincts, though, all that realism the years have shed on my perspective falls away. I still find myself wanting desperately to "make memories" for my kids.

<strong>In case you missed it, the problem here lies in the <em>making</em> of the memories, not in the <em>having</em> of memories. </strong>Having memories, and cherishing them and crafting them into stories, are all wonderful things. (I'm sure child psychologists say memories play critical roles in a child's sense of family, security and self-awareness, or something like that—could someone look up the proper lingo for me?)

<strong>But if there's one clear truth about life's memories—the ones that we hold most dear, and will continue to, well into old age—it's this: they can't be planned or made.</strong> They can't be outlined or orchestrated. They can't be rehearsed or even improvised, really. They can only <em>happen</em>.

And the moments that take us completely by surprise, with the details we never could have dreamed up? Those become the very best memories.
<h4>Making a decent plan does not necessarily make a memory</h4>
Saturday was S's ninth birthday, and I was feeling guilty about how tired and scattered I felt about the plans. (Hey, maybe it's guilt that drives a lot of our memory-making efforts. I wouldn't be surprised.)

In this case, though, I didn't even have the time or energy to go overboard trying to compensate for my lack of planning. Her birthday fell at the end of spring break, a week that sent all five of us on various adventures in different directions. On the eve of S's birthday, we  were arriving home a disjointed family of four with lots of dirty laundry and nothing in the fridge. Q was scheduled to return from her house boating/caving/horseback riding adventure with my parents the next day.

All we had time to do was ask S what she wanted for her birthday breakfast and dinner, get some groceries and wrap the gifts we already had. I worried that the gifts weren't fun or exciting enough, and that we hadn't planned a fun outing, or asked S if she wanted to invite a friend over. <strong>I was feeling like one big, tired, lame parenting FAIL.</strong>

Her birthday dawned cold, wet and miserable. And have I mentioned how tired we all were? And the chaotic state of our messy house? These are <em>not</em> good ingredients for magical memories.

I managed to come up with a couple of fun ideas on the fly, to help pass the time until grandma and grandpa arrived with Q and we could open presents. S and I spent an hour with yarn, pipe cleaners, patterned wrapping paper scraps and markers, decorating the heck out of the plain brown paper-wrapped box that held her biggest present (a soccer goal). It was just the kind of down time we needed together, after several days apart.

Then we went to a pet supply store to check out the toys and other things dogs need. (It looks like we're getting our dog this week! More on that soon!) We let S pick out two dog toys. She loved being a part of the preparation and the rituals that build excitement around a big, upcoming event like getting a dog.
<h4>How a ninth birthday magically became a memory—all on its own</h4>
But the best birthday memory of all—the one S will always remember, and will tell her children and grandchildren about—emerged out of a spontaneous desire S had to observe "Earth Hour," a global plan to spend an hour without electricity.

"Let's turn all the lights out for an hour!" she suddenly declared.

As we approached the 8:30 lights-out time, I was whipping cream and assembling a Dr. Seussian, family-sized strawberry shortcake. The girls were scrounging around the house for candles and flashlights. H began lighting the candles, while Q and S strategically placed them in the dining and living rooms. At 8:30 we turned the lights out, just in time for me to light nine more, very special candles.

We sang "Happy Birthday" in our candle-lit house, the unexpected beauty and adventure of it all covering me in goosebumps. We laughed as I tried to figure out how to serve up my big, messy masterpiece in the near-dark, and our taste-buds seemed more alert than ever to the flavors and textures of the buttery biscuit, sweet-tangy strawberries, and cool, smooth cream.

Then we moved all of the candles into the living room and spent the rest of our electricity-free hour playing charades. The room was filled with everything a ninth birthday should have: cozy warmth, laughter, people who love you like crazy, and an unplanned, magical element that will forever trigger for S the memory of that moment, and exactly how she felt.