Angie’s Memoir Project – Page 5

My big project this year

1-snowflake class — I held a little snowflake making class at out house yesterday. As you can see, the women who came caught on very quickly.

This year I am dedicating time each day to write a book of glimpses of and reflections on motherhood.

It takes courage to write that. It will take courage to hit “publish” when I finish writing this post. I have been thinking about writing a book for a long time. I avoid publicizing my blog because the family is on display along with my words, but I want to share my writing with a larger audience. When I told Richard about my plans, he just said, “Wow, you’ve been thinking about this a lot.”

I am adapting some essays from the blog, but there will be plenty of new material, too. I work each morning for about an hour (or three). I have about 50 pages written.

I’m writing because I want to share a realistic but positive definition of motherhood without a focus on decorating nurseries and complaining about every little thing.

I’m writing because I wish there were more mothers with children over the age of ten sharing their experiences and perspective.

I’m writing because my children are growing up and I need to hold on to some memories (or write them down before I forget).

I’m writing because motherhood is difficult, but there are ways of finding joy in it. I’m writing to show others that finding joy is a strategy and it’s a skill; it’s not an air-brushed way of looking at life that refuses to acknowledge the bad.

I’m not writing because I think the book will be picked up by a publisher; in fact, I’ll probably have to print the book on the old laser jet and have it bound at the local print shop. The important thing is that my family will have this record. I will have this record. If anyone else can benefit from it and enjoy it, that will make me happy, too.

Any advice, requests… (encouragement)?

Veiled memories

Paige in her Easter dress at our apartment looking down at a bug. She is 20 months old.

We lived in an apartment for a year in Austin, Texas before we moved into our house. This wasn’t our first time living in a different state from our parents, but Richard’s job made it a more permanent arrangement. Paige was my constant companion through that year of adjustment.

We made daily walks to the mailbox and this was the highlight of our day. I was writing to two brothers on missions and my grandmother was a faithful correspondent. I lived for the mail. Paige lived for the ducks we passed on our way to the mailboxes. We watched families of ducks hatch in the spring and grow to maturity.

I reflect on those times now and find that these memories hold my heart like it’s a sponge being wrung. Real feelings are associated with those simple moments. Last night I asked her if she remembered our walks, but she couldn’t. Did she remember the lake or the apartment? Did she remember our talks or the evenings we blew bubbles in the protected corridors between apartment buildings which allowed the bubbles to sail more gently? No, the memories were not there.

I know enough about child development to realize that infancy and early childhood are not about concrete memories, but the feelings of security and the affection of a parent are pivotal to many areas of development.

It still seems a little sad that she can’t remember those times, though. Perhaps I should look at those memories of motherhood as a personal gift from God, a reminder that small and simple acts are significant. For it seems that simple acts bring blessings for the giver long after the recipient ceases to need those gifts. These feelings and memories are my treasures, and they are uniquely mine because they were crafted with my own small acts of personal sacrifice and love. Perhaps these motherly acts were inspired by remnants of memories of my own mother’s forgotten acts kindness to me when I was a baby. In all things, it seems that God knows best how to nurture his children, and if it means forgetfulness for a while, then I will trust in that.

Thoughts after chips and salsa

A funny thing happened last night on our date to La Placita.

We ate the same food we always eat.

We left the kids with the same instructions to eat macaroni and cheese.

We drove off in our white car.

All the usual.

We wove another uninterrupted strand of conversation encircling the regular topics of our lives.

We didn’t talk about our marriage* or anything metaphysical like,

“Should we send Daniel to a charter school?”

(Though Richard tried.)

No– last night was an airing of a commonplace conversation.

But even though we didn’t talk about our marriage directly,

I felt the line between “he” and “me” in our conversation begin to blur.

Our minds met, overstepping previous lines of demarcation:

I spoke a little more about politics; He, a little more about my church calling.

I realized that though our hearts learned to communicate first,

Our minds, sympathies and opinions are becoming less “his” and “hers” varieties today.

And these sympathies meet in our brief and precious dates over chips and salsa,

Further defining our marriage.