When I was a little girl, my journal read something like this:
October 19, 1983
Grandma Smith bought me this new journal for my eighth birthday! I am going to write in it every day.
January 1, 1984
I haven’t been very good about writing in my journal, but I’m going to start now. I’m going to write in it every day.
Wow, I wasn’t very good at writing in my journal. I need to be better. So much has happened, but it’s late tonight and I need to sleep, so I’ll write tomorrow. PROMISE.
Wow, look how long it’s been since I’ve written in my journal! I’m in eighth grade now, can you believe it?
So, I was packing for college and I found the old blue journal that Grandma gave me when I got baptized. Since only two or three pages were written in, I decided to bring it along, just in case I wanted to write in a journal.
And you know what? I did write. EVERY SINGLE DAY for two years. Going back and looking through that big, blue journal makes me smile. Things that happened to me, boys I had a crush on, the friends I made and the experiences I had (both good and bad) are all there for me to browse through. I LOVE that I was so diligent at keeping a journal. It’s funny– the primary reason I did it was because I wanted to tell my mom every single thing that happened when I was away, and it was too expensive for me to call long distance every night. (Feel free to laugh at my dependency. Some of my roommates did, often.) I filled that journal, plus two more, over the next 2 1/2 years. Ironically, I stopped writing nightly around the time I met my husband, and just between us, those are the times I SHOULD have been writing regularly. (He remembers our history just a *teency* bit differently than I do, and it would be so helpful to pull out my journal and show him just how wrong he is.)
Some of you probably noticed that I have been absent from my blog lately. (Some of you may not have, and I’d rather not have you tell me you didn’t notice.) Without going into too much detail, let me just say that life seems to have hit me squarely between the eyes when I wasn’t looking, and I have been feeling slightly (read: SLIGHTLY!!!) overwhelmed by it all. Some of it is funny (in hindsight, of course); some of it is sad. Some of it is touching and sweet, and a good share of it is frustrating and cringe-worthy.
All of it is mine.
It stands to reason, then, that it deserves to be written about, rather than avoided and/or forgotten. At some point in the future, maybe one of my children will have a child who acts like another of my children (although having TWO of them in this world will signal the apocalypse, I’m certain), and it would be nice for them to read that while their mom’s head did, in fact, explode with frustration on a regular basis, it managed to grow back every single day. Perhaps they’ll find themselves lacking faith, or unsure about the future, and they’ll take comfort in the fact that someone else has been there and made it through. (Please, God, let me make it through.)
If nothing else, I hope to be able to look back on this time in my life and be reminded of who I was and how far I’ve come. It might also be nice to keep count of how many times a mother’s head can explode before it fails to regenerate.
I’m up to 174.