Bear with me; I'm feeling melancholy this evening.
I've often lamented that I'm a writer who doesn't write. This is becoming much more painful to bear now that there's something at stake. That is, I'm losing their infancy.
It sounds overly dramatic, I know. Let me explain. I've always intended to journal regularly, if only for me. Once I welcomed my sons into my life, it became even more important. I want to record all of those fleeting moments. I know that I won't be able to rely on my memory for a clear or complete picture.
This evening I had a nice warm and fuzzy moment just listening to my three-year old talk; enjoying the timbre of his voice, his lisps and mispronunciations...and I mused at how his voice, vocabulary, and use of language have changed in the past year. Then it hit me--I can't really remember how he sounded a year ago.
This kills me. I have moments like this constantly. How can you spend almost every waking second of your life with another person, and yet the details of the experience fade from your consciousness so quickly? It's like the old Doors song: "I can't see your face in my mind". Those aren't just words, sister. Neither is the platitude that every old lady in the grocery store invariably tosses toward young parents: "They grow up so fast!" Yeah, yeah. Then it happens to YOUR baby, and you're left wondering what the hell happened.
But back to that journal. I don't do it. I have one. It has ONE entry in it; from when my three-year-old was 9 months old. The truth of the matter is, I'm so busy LIVING this that I don't have as much time as I'd like to sit back and REFLECT on it.
What I do have, though, is stolen moments where I'll type out brief reports, stories, and anecdotes in blogs, on bulletin boards, or in emails to grandparents. I'm trying to remember to avail myself of that copy-and-paste functionality and keep backup copies of those snippets for my own records.
It's not much, but it's better than an empty baby book.