How do you quantify a life?
Instead of a nice, leisurely maternity leave, we work on insurance. Dan and I are trying to finish up our content's list, and this question plagues me.
I can put a monetary amount on a crib. I can't quantify its value. I can't include the memory of me at 2.5 (yes, I remember) moving to Virginia Beach with my mom, walking into my new bedroom, seeing the crib, and thinking of how much my mom must have loved me to get a crib for me. I can't account for the cost to ship it across the country to have in my house. And I can't include the loss of sharing it with our son. How do I quantify my life?
I can list the replacement cost for each yearbook I had growing up. But I can't quantify its value. I will never be able to recapture the comments in those yearbooks. I will never be able to share those yearbooks (and said comments) with my children, even as embarrassing as some of them might have been.
I can include $3.99 for every card given to me. But I can't quantify their value. Those cards were sent by family and friends to share in my joy... and in my sorrow. I can't replace those emotions. How do I quantify my life?
I can theoretically replace my cabbage patch doll collection. But I can't replace the love I had for those dolls growing up. I can't replace the scratch on one of their heads from playing too rough. I can't replace the stuffed bear who was so worn that I set him aside as a child out of fear that he would be loved too much and would disappear like the Velveteen Rabbit. I can't replace the stains in A Little Princess or the memories of reading the book in my childhood bedroom with my mom. I can't replace my wedding guest book and most certainly not our wedding video. I can list a price for the cassette to record, but I can't get back the video of our hot air balloon over Napa Valley. What number do I write down for my memories? How do I quantify my life?