I tried blogging years ago. Even before kids, it was often difficult to find the time. I recently went back through those archives to find a post I had written during the last election season. Since that blog has been dormant for almost four years, I didn’t have to look far. But I found myself sucked in to reading what I had to say back then – what I felt was worthy of writing down.
Now that we have a one-year-old and a three-year-old, I find myself constantly talking about how it’s difficult to find time to do anything other than fulfill their needs.
Yet I have been consistently reflecting on how precious – and how fleeting – is the experience of being a mother, and how often I miss being able to probe my own mother’s memory about things like what it was like to be pregnant with me, give birth, and take care of me as a baby. She was very good about keeping my baby book (I was her first, after all), but that mostly marks milestones, not so much the every day stuff of her experiences and her feelings. Nor does it really record my personality and character development.
She had shared some vignettes with me as I grew up, but nothing that really prepared me for the parenting journey. There is still a lot I wish I could ask her, but I can’t. And though my dad loves me, he just can’t provide the kind of information I seek.
I pray that, God willing, my husband and I will both live long lives, see our children grow up and still be around to play with grandchildren. But there are no guarantees, a lesson I had to learn the hard way. I feel a need to leave a record for my children, just in case I can’t be there or verbally express myself.
I still don’t have time for this. But it’s important. For Munchkin and Peanut. For me, too. I must write them in my book of memory.