To My Darling Children

I don't have a lot of memories of my childhood. But unfortunately most of the memories I do have are the ones I don't want to remember. My parents divorcing. Being picked on at school, playing by myself in a one bedroom apartment. Feeling like I was alone even with my mom around.

I desperately hope you remember the good times.

I am typing this after a particularly bittersweet Saturday. We had a relaxing morning, where dad made breakfast burritos. Then we had two soccer games. Then you relaxed in the afternoon playing games with each other, and I made "monkey milkshakes" with frozen banana and some caramel. We had pizza for dinner and warm cookies for dessert while watching the new Karate Kid movie.

I am wrought with guilt as I type this during the movie. But that's what I've been doing all day - something else. I was late to Abby's game because I was working (on a Saturday). That's also why dad made breakfast. I spent the afternoon doing school stuff instead of playing games with you, and then following the puppy around, then doing laundry and cleaning and... Basically feeling overwhelmed by my "to-do" list. I was too frustrated with my own "life" when I decided no one else was allowed to have fun and made you stop playing games.

I hope when you are older you don't remember my absence. Or my many, many frazzled moments. I hope you remember pajama days, monkey milkshakes, and wrestling with your puppy. I hope you remember your dad and I cheering the loudest during your soccer games. I hope you remember us as at least trying to be patient, loving, gentle parents. I hope you remember that we were there for you. I hope your memories are cherished instead of forgettable.

Well here goes...

I've failed to write much in the last... oh, 32 years. I never kept a diary. I journaled in college, but most of that is MIA. It's time.

It's time I actually captured my history. My story. Our story. My thoughts and dreams. Our adventures. Our complete and utter failures.

The idea of having a history kind of freaks me out, actually. I'm not a history fan - never was. Why look at a bunch of dead guys, old ways, and fallen-down buildings? Why study war, when we can go play in the lake or make brownies? Okay... I still feel that way.

But yesterday two things happened that made me decide it's time to capture my story. My dear friend Tyha has a "LIST". You know. A "this is what I want to do with my life" list. She actually HAS a list! And between now and October she's going to have about 4 things crossed off her list. How awesome is that! This list is going to tell a story - it will be a legacy to her children of the amazing things she has accomplished. It will be a reflection of her spirit. I realized in our conversation that I, too, have a list. But it's not written down. A list in my head is NOT the same as a written list. I can easily get sidetracked by my own stupidity and make excuses, because there's no commitment. No one will know when something is crossed off the list. No. One. Will. Know.

The second thing that happened yesterday was that I booked our flights to New York City. New York City! As an adult, the only eastern locations I've been to are Florida, Columbus and Boston (though work trips don't count, IMHO). The four of us are going to go to NYC for the first time and embark on a far-flung adventure throughout New England. I even (AAAHHHH!) bought us tickets to see a Broadway play (which, BTW, is soooo on my list!). After I booked it, I dreamed of the places we'll go together, the fun we'll have, the sights we'll see. The coney dogs we'll eat.

And I realized - this trip will be but a fleeting memory if it's not written about. I need to write our story.

I don't like history. My family's history isn't very pretty, what little I do know. I know about some of the bad, and very little of the good. I know whose hair I inherited, and to watch for mental disorders and blood sugar issues. But history is so much more than medical conditions or genetics. And I want to leave one - if not for my kids, then for myself. So when I am a batty old woman with spiked purple hair, I can look back on what we've done. And smile.