It's 8 a.m. on Saturday morning. I'm writing early today, making sure I get it done! It looks like winter outside more than ever. The snow is still covering the ground. I'm trying not to be nervous about the palm trees--the ones we've already replaced once thanks to snow. Anyway, I pretty much have two New Year's resolutions: run the 2017 St. George Marathon, and write in this journal daily. So here goes.
When I was young, I faithfully wrote in my journal. I filled up a few volumes with my daily thoughts. I continued on as I got older, documenting my dating life and even writing every day as I dated and got engaged to Greg. Those journals are a treasure to me.
In my first little journals, I would always write, "Dear Diary"... and end with something like, "Goodnight! Love, Rindi." Somehow, it felt easier to write as if someone were listening. I would write my nightly letters to some imaginary friend and then send them off into the atmosphere.
I suppose I am following the same pattern here. I'm writing as if someone were listening, and yet no one is.
A few years ago, I helped edit my Grandma Fowler's life history. I could absolutely hear her voice from the grave as I read each thing she had written. I read about her busy life, her days as a mother and a grandmother, her concerns and struggles, her joys, and all of the things that made her who she was. I enjoyed it so much.
A few months ago, I talked to my mom about all of the things I've been writing and collecting over the years. We talked about what to do with all of it. Save it, she said, your children will cherish every piece of it. I think it will be a way for them, as adults, to get to know me, as an adult. I loved reading about Grandma that way, hearing her voice as a young mother now that I am a young mother too. I loved her more than ever after that.
So, I'm imagining that my children are reading this someday. And there are a few things I want to tell them. I hope they know that I love them with all of my soul. That every day, I think about them and what I need to do to help them be the best they can be. I want them to remember the times I played U-no on the floor, or the times I let them race through the house with nerf guns, and the times that I joined them. I want them to remember how I made hot chocolate and cleaned it up, and how I read stories every night, how I fixed their hair before school, and how I screamed and cheered for them during every sporting event. I hope they remember the hours I drove them around in the afternoon, taking them to practices and lessons and parties, how I let friends come over, and how I helped with scouts and personal progress and homework. I want them to remember how we sat side by side on the piano, working on lessons, or learning duets together.
I'm sure they will remember the times I lost it, the crazy way I wanted the family room cleaned and vacuumed multiple times a day, how I freaked out about the X-box, and demanded that they clean their rooms, over and over. I hope they remember my Sunday dinners, with mashed potatoes and gravy, and jello and rolls. I hope they remember how I faithfully applied their sunscreen in the summer, and how I went to Girls Camp and slept in a tent, how I stayed up late so we could have outdoor movies, how I let them sleep in my bed when they were scared, and how I voted for ice cream when we were out and about.
I hope they know that I got them ready for church, even when they cried and protested, and took them each week, and battled them when they were naughty, and carried an enormous bag of tricks to try to keep them quiet, and how I insisted on family home evening, and tried to have family prayer, and did it even when everyone seemed to be against me. I hope they remember how I tried to stop their fights, and hugged them when they were sad, and listened even when I was tired.
But most of all, I hope they know that I'm not perfect. I'm faced with my flaws more and more each day. But I tried. I am giving my whole heart and soul to motherhood. And there isn't anything in the world that I'd rather do. I hope they know that when I see their faces in the morning, I'm happy. And when I see them succeed, my heart nearly bursts. And when I see them struggle, I cry for them. And every day, I pray for them. I love them so much. Love just doesn't even seem to be a big enough word to describe my feelings for them.
I want to borrow a line from a great book I read last year. The moment I read this line, my eyes filled with tears, and I knew that it was describing the way I feel about my kids. This is from When Breath becomes Air, by Paul Kalinithi. It's an amazing book. Go read it. This is slightly changed, but it's what he tells his baby daughter just before he dies of cancer.
My dear kids, when you come to one of the many moments in life where you must give an account of yourself, provide a ledger of what you have been, and done, and meant to the world, do not, I pray, discount that you have filled my heart with unspeakable joy, that you came into my arms and my world, and that you made my life worth living, that you made me a mother and completed me. And that is no small thing.
For that, I will always love you. With my whole heart.
Love, Mom
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