...I know a lot of moms feel this way after they have kids. Parts of them, who they were, or who they thought they were, start to disappear. I had one of those days this week. It was pouring rain; I had two kids to drag in and out of the car multiple times. The car needed gas during a small monsoon. I needed to miraculously get home, drop the kids off with a babysitter, and make it to a meeting that was 45 minutes away in approximately 20 minutes. Everyone was tired. I thought about the days...before. I can’t even remember what I did with my free time, sometimes I can’t remember who I used to be. I know I had the memory at some point, but it’s like trying to find a file that was erased from my hard drive years ago.
And then, just like that, it was bedtime. I gave Clara a bottle, and after nuzzling in my neck for a moment, she slowly, quietly pushed back, smiled ear-to-ear, ripped out her binky and screamed, “Momma!” Then I went to Charlie’s room, where he slowly, quietly, read me Little Blue Truck. I came downstairs and surveyed the day’s mess. The trains that met my feet with every step. The random lego, golf ball, and hmm, I hope that’s a straw, under the bookcase. The new scratches on my kitchen table, my new wood floors. The questionable stains. And dear lord the crumbs. The crumbs.
And trust me, I hate it when people tell me to appreciate this time just as much as this guy does (I know I'm not the only one who said a quiet, "amen," when they read, "There are people who say this to me: 'You should enjoy every moment now! They grow up so fast!' I usually smile and give some sort of guffaw, but inside, I secretly want to hold them under water. Just for a minute or so. Just until they panic a little.") Just until they panic. A little.
But, that night, I realized that some day there will be no one to put to bed. There will be no trains and no cries in the middle of the night. No backs to rub, no binkies to search for. There will be no one to dance to Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star with. Suddenly, I became sentimental about sticky fingerprints.
There will be no Hansel and Gretel trail up the stairs at night.
There will be no one to stick an, “M” sticker to my butt, which I walk around the better part of the day with, completely unaware.
But I digress.
I don’t just feel like I have disappeared from my every day life, but also from my scrapbooks. And I’m OK with that. I’m all for guilt-free scrapbooking, as in, you do what you can and that has to be good enough. So when I was asked to participate in Lexi Bridges’ This is Me class at Studio Calico, I really wondered if it was something I should do. Then I realized it wasn’t something I should do, it was something I needed to do. Because one day, some day, my kids might want to know more than just what they were like when they were little. They might want to know what I was like too. It’s important to remember them, but it’s also important to remember me too.
I used to scrapbook about myself, about us (when that was just two adults and a dog) all the time.
And I’m really, really going to try to keep this up (a few little sneaks from my album for the class):
The class is going to be great. Join us if you can, that is if you aren’t too busy having someone embellish your butt with alpha stickers. Like me.