Dad gave me my first journal when I was five. Green, hard-cover, with blank pages. It had one of those ribbons that's attached to the binding and used to mark your place. Hardcover, ribbon marker...I was quite the grown-up journaling lady. It has lots of scribblings. Mostly in marker.
Then in 7th grade, Mrs. Zuercher taught us to really journal. We got to write in it every day, and sometimes she wrote comments on yellow sticky notes and stuck them on the pages. That time I chose a red, hardcover, paisley print book.
In high school, my journals were about friendships and parents and falling in and out of love. In college, they were about figuring out how to be a grown up. And a boy named Ryan. In the last few years, they include lists and notes and quotes and ideas and cut-outs and cards and photos.
All that to say that discovering Eva's journal recently was probably my single proudest moment of motherhood. Forget walking or learning to talk or spelling her name. This is bigger.
Often, when I go to wake her up in the morning, there is a new page open on her nightstand - that she completed after being tucked in the night before.
Funny how they so clearly and simple convey the current chaos in our home...
"Title is: pushing. Pushing is a bad thing. I don't like pushing. My brother does it a lot."
They fight. Constantly.
"Coppying. I don't like coppying. Coppying is naughty. Coppying is...bad!"
"I like icecream."
Well, at least there's that.
Lately, life fills more chaotic. I go to bed at night with a longer list of things not yet done than usual. I can't figure out what is causing it, and its making me short-fused and annoyed.
Apparently, its obvious because she ripped out this page, and wrapped it all together and brought it to me when I was in the middle of bathing the two littles, talking on the phone, and just generally trying to check things off my list...
Oh my happy heart.