I started a book for both my children when they were born which detailed the early milestones of their first year and how I felt about being their mother. Upon rereading it I’m struck by how beautiful it is and how, on such little sleep, the language is almost poetic.
I once again have the desire to start writing in that book but every time I sit down to write it goes something like this….
Today I literally sweat my ovaries off trying to get you to camp on time….(scratch that. Too graphic…)
This morning you cried when I told you that you couldn’t have a cookie for breakfast and then under my breath I said… (okay, no. Can’t write that)
Honestly, why the hell did I sign you up for a camp that takes me an hour to drive to twice a day?!? (Mmmm…needs to be more encouraging).
So my question is…How did I write those early pages?! Was I high? When the hell did I find the time to do that and how do I get that person back? That person who actually wrote things like “April 11th 2007, rolled to the left” and “September 21st 8am…said BA”
Or maybe I need to ask myself if I really need to? Could it be possible that the new age Memory Book could (and should?) include passages like:
July 30, 2013 8am – This blows. No offense. I love you.
August 14, 2013 6pm – Am making you pasta for the third night in a row as an alternative to me bawling solo in the car.
August 21 2013 8pm – Am thinking about how I wish I took before and after pictures of my boobs.
Don’t get me wrong, I adore my children. But right now I could use a Memory Book where I get to just complain about really basic parenting crap. I know what you’re thinking…that’s called a JOURNAL – Oprah goes on and on about hers – but isn’t it apparent that when I die my children are going to read my diary anyway? Unless of course I get to it first and burn it? (Oh and trust me, I will. Very very old (I hope) and in a motorized scooter just burning pages in a park). And besides Oprah’s journal is about being thankful and Samantha Bee would never be my friend again if I told her I had a “Gratitude Journal”.
So why not just make it into a book they can read? A book that combines all the sweet wonderful moments of parenting AND the times I broke into a full body sweat to get them to a splash pad before it closed? A book that once they finish reading my children can safely assume I loved them beyond belief and did it while RUNNING non-stop. Again, mostly sweating.
There isn’t really much I need to hide to be honest. And If I’m 94 and burning journals in a park I’ll be entirely doing it for effect while people take pictures.
Oh hold on…
YES! That’s it! My Memory Book for my children should be just photos…or illustrations.
Illustrations of their sweaty damp running mother who loved them dearly.
Who wouldn’t want to look at that?!
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