Updated: Aug. 21, 2015
Originally Published: July 4, 2015
Around 15 years ago, I crafted a charming wooden box adorned with soft pastel hues. Inside, I stashed a newspaper along with a few other items. Despite the passage of time, I can’t seem to recall the specifics of those items; my best guess is that there are some photographs among them. Topping the box is a letter sealed in an envelope, marked with my daughter’s name and the phrase “To be opened on your 18th birthday.” This envelope is tied to the box with a lovely ribbon. Her sister has a similar time capsule, made two years later, and both remain tucked away in their baby mementos in the crawlspace.
Reflecting on the excitement I felt while creating these time capsules brings a mix of joy and anxiety. I envisioned the delight on my daughters’ faces when they opened them, pondering what memories might resurface. I can only imagine the amusing or odd surprises I may have included.
However, it’s the letter that truly concerns me. Just over a year before my eldest daughter was born, I experienced a miscarriage, a heart-wrenching event that left me devastated. In my search for closure, I penned a heartfelt letter to my lost child, pouring out my emotions. When I read that letter recently, it was a poignant expression of the joy, sadness, and goodbye I felt.
If that letter serves as a precursor, the letters in the time capsules are likely to be equally emotional. I probably wrote about the anticipation of the first nine months with each daughter, the exhilaration of seeing them for the first time, and the overwhelming love that enveloped me. Yet, I might have also included references to my husband and family photos, which now fill me with regret. I worry about my daughters confronting the stark contrasts between their past and present lives, especially as they navigate through challenging experiences, including their parents’ divorce.
Despite these challenges, my daughters are thriving. They remain healthy, sweet, and happy, excelling in their studies and maintaining a positive outlook, unlike some of their more rebellious peers. They were once aware of their time capsules but may have forgotten about them. I am now faced with several options regarding their future.
One choice is to open the time capsules alone to assess the contents and decide if I want to make any changes. Alternatively, I could wait until after their 18th birthdays, allowing them to mature before confronting any emotional fallout from the letters. Another option involves opening the first capsule when my eldest turns 18 and gauging her reaction before deciding whether to share the second one. However, this approach feels unfair to her, leading me to reconsider this path.
I could also allow the girls to open their time capsules as initially intended, letting the outcomes unfold naturally. Lastly, I could opt to keep them sealed forever.
While I dread the difficult conversations that might arise, I feel that these choices are more honest than preemptively screening the letters. When I sealed those envelopes and tied them to the boxes, it felt as though I was gifting them something for their future selves. The challenge lies in knowing when to stop shielding my daughters from life’s realities. Is there ever a right time to stop protecting them?
Perhaps I need to revisit my original intent behind creating these time capsules. Children love hearing “The Story of You,” and my daughters often inquire about their early years. They derive great joy from reading their “funny books”—collections of amusing anecdotes from their childhood. By altering or withholding the time capsules, am I depriving them of a vital part of their story? Or have I already provided enough through journals, photos, videos, and those cherished books? Each capsule captures the truth of that moment in time.
Maybe these items represent my own journey and feelings as a mother during that period. Will understanding my emotions at that time affect them when they reach adulthood? Ultimately, this still feels like it’s about them.
For now, I lean toward postponing the unveiling for a few more years. Perhaps the right moment will align with their own life experiences, allowing them to relate to The Story of Us in a meaningful way.
This article was originally published on July 4, 2015.
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Summary:
In contemplating the time capsules crafted for my daughters, I grapple with concerns about the emotional weight of the letters inside. Created in moments of joy and sorrow, these capsules encapsulate pivotal moments in our lives. I ponder the impact of their contents on my daughters as they grow, weighing the importance of honesty against the instinct to protect them from harsh truths. Ultimately, I consider delaying the opening of these time capsules, allowing my daughters to experience their own milestones before confronting the narratives captured within.