Better People

I had a fantastic weekend with my birthday girl and my family at the center. I lived in the moment, I celebrated my blessings. I saw the good in all things.

In doing all of this, I was struck by the fact that my little girl has grown into a wonderful person. She's funny and kind. She writes in a journal almost constantly. She draws, better than her momma. She says please and thank you. And she's adorable.

At one point, she wanted me to write in my journal while she wrote in hers. I was trying to nurse a fussy baby to sleep and led her on and on to believe I'd write in my journal with her, but--oops--fell asleep myself. But before I did, she was finding my place in my journal, and we came across a note in her writing. It was found by Daddy in August on the living room floor, and I taped it into my journal for all time. We read it together: "I snuk a book from my mom's closet. It is a high school musical Book. She was maybe saving It for my Birthday But to Bad I Have It."

And we laughed and laughed.... "Too bad, I have it!" she laughed.

It appears my girl has learned how to laugh at herself. And, while that might not seem monumental, it is. It took me a long time to not take myself too seriously. And sometimes I still have trouble with that.

Another thing happened this past week that got me thinking. I was in the basement, putting away clothes, looking for others in sizes and seasons I knew existed, and I ran upon a Pandora's box. It was a tote full of memories, mostly from my teenage and college years, but also an 8th birthday card from my Grandma and Grandpa Strahler, a letter from me ("Two-Ton Tony") to my dear Grandpa ("64-Ton Tony"), my First Communion Bible and all sorts of other precious things.

And that box grabbed me by the heart and wouldn't let go. I stood and read and cried and remembered for more than an hour. My knees begged me to give up but my heart gave in to the memories. In that box was a smaller box of letters from my father during a very pivotal part of my life. Reading them was like reading them for the first time. They were wise and sad and full of humility. And it reminded me of a driving force in my life, a hand that shaped me. There were lines of advice in there, in my dad's somewhat backward way and script, that showed me that, in spite of our differences, we both want the same thing: for our children to be better than we were.

These two events together tell me it's true: I've been saying, and others say it too, that I want a better life for my children than the one I've had. But instead, I think maybe I want my children to be better people. The life, the house, the wallet, those are all details. But If I can have a hand in making better people than I am, now that's something. Those better people will weather whatever they must. They'll shine up their places in this world, and they'll find a better way.

Here's to birthdays, to this day, eight years ago, when I became nearly everything I wanted to be. Here's to raising better people.

And to my mini-me, who spiked a fever on her birthday: Feel better, girlie. I love you!!

Wine and the Written Word

This is one of those nights that confirms I made the right decision when I vowed not to make any major changes in the first year of having four children. My hormones are trying to square dance inside of me while my (im)patience tries to scrub the floor. And that fickle thing called hope is nowhere in sight.

I've got a glass of questionably old wine and the idea that I should be writing in my journal instead of typing on my laptop. There is a lot to be said for wine and the written word. Why, if I had the time, I'd sink myself into a bubble bath too. Sounds good in theory, right? But the water gets so cold, and I'm afraid I'll spill the wine or the bath on the paper.

I think I've got a case of the Mondays. And that's ok.

I had a teacher in high school that was incredibly quotable. He was grumpy and opinionated, and he favored students of one sex over the other. I was always up for a fight with him, but I respected him as well. The quote coming back to me tonight: "It won't be long until you want jingle bells; you gotta have jingle bells." It was about depression and coming out of it--somehow finding that thing to save you from yourself.

And so maybe that bath isn't a bad idea. Maybe that stroke of cursive "y" on fine paper with a roller-gel pen is what I need. If I'm really true to myself, I'll do the bare minimum and get to bed. I was up and up and up nursing a baby and smoothing back Lily's hair as her pneumonia cough haunted her slumber. This valley is very likely the result of the fact that I'm very tired and have been for a very long time.

A friend at work who has been feeling oppressed for many months was decidedly hopeful today. I saw her champion smile for the first time in a long time, and it made me smile too. I told her I'd borrow that smile and that hope, if she'd share them with me, and she agreed.

So tonight I borrow. I sip the wine and practice the written word. And tomorrow will be better. Because I'm blessed. And because, no matter the flood, hope floats.

Twenty Years Ago Today

Twenty years ago today, a day after my 12th birthday, I started what I consider to be a "serious journal." As a kid, I had several One-Year Diaries, and, even at the ripe old age of eleven, didn't like being put in a box. I hated the feeling of missing days and feeling as though I'd somehow disappointed somebody, somewhere.

So the plan was to buy a simple notebook and begin my "serious journal" on my 12th birthday. Something happened and I didn't get that notebook in time. Hence, it was June 2, 1990, that my true writing career began. Sixty-six and a half novellas later, I can tell you--and anyone else, for that matter--that it was perhaps the best decision I've ever made and the one thing that has most defined who I am to the world and who I am to myself.

I'm a writer.

I'm also a mother, a wife, a daughter, a sister and a friend, hopefully in that order. I am many things, as are all of us modern mothers, trying to make it all work on so many levels. I work part-time at a pretty important job. I dream of building a home on the family land on which I grew up. I'd like to be published, to write a novel or an autobiography. And it feels like it's time.

So, today, without much planning and much thought, I'm launching a blog. I'm not at 100% mentally right now. I've had a tough month. I've got three kids each under the weather in his or her own way. There's a raging thunderstorm outside my windows. I'm tired.

But, tonight, I celebrate me. I celebrate the time and space I've carved out for me to be a journalist. I celebrate the fact that I've had an amazing and interesting life and that the majority of it is down on paper, in longhand, in my own words. I celebrate both the miracle and the scariness of that written history.

And, as I search my soul for what I might end up doing with that written history, I invite you to read along. I've got about a million stories to tell, so I figure as long as I want to write this blog, I'll have the content. I'm not sure who my audience is, what my intent is or even whether or not this blog will exist in a month, but, for now, I feel like writing if you feel like reading.

These are my reasons.