Memories

The fifth anniversary of this humble blog passed by with nary a whisper. All the way back in August. I hadn't noticed it until now. I sat down to write a post about my purple hair (forthcoming) and realized I had passed that Holy shit, this bitch is five years old and I didn't get her a present! moment a couple of months back.

Talk about your belated birthdays.

As I age, my usual death and dismemberment anxieties get worse. Before my children, I had a list (written on purple legal pad paper, natch) of personal belongings that would be passed out among my family and friends. Now, of course, all those things would go to my children. But here's the thing.

I don't want Miss-Miss to remember me via a necklace. Bubba won't care about my scuba gear if I'm not in it, diving with him, and I'm sure J-man would prefer me over some Anne Rice first editions. I know this because I miss my father. Terribly. And the one thing that has meaning for me was a letter he wrote to me before his death. His very presence, spirit is in that letter and I miss him so very much. He taught me how to tie my shoes, was there for every marching band performance, clapped the loudest and praised the highest whenever I did right and scowled the most when I did wrong. He would be such a balm for my soul right now as I struggle to raise these three kids. And granted, it's not a struggle in the traditional sense, because I am damned lucky to be where I am, to be a stay-at-home-mom, but I struggle because I'm a perfectionist and I expect to be perfect knowing I never can be. Dad would be there to tell me to calm down. He would be the base to the acid of my thoughts that whisper poison to me everyday when I, yet again, fail to reach the high standard I stupidly set out for myself. He is the voice I'm missing from my life. Sadly, I can't really remember the sound of his voice and his face is frozen, unmoving, in my mind because his multi-dimensional self has been replaced with old family photos and one measly letter.

I want my three babies to remember me. ME. Not some random memory of me or another person's perception of me through their fuzzy memories. They need to remember me through my own words and actions. This is why I've decided to turn my blog into a book. I'm currently in the process of copying all 720 posts (now, 721) into a book that can sit on a shelf, a book full of words and pictures that will give my three bundles of joy and heartaches a full picture of who their mother is and was. I want them to truly see me.

In doing this, I'm reading posts that I haven't seen in several years. Several. Wow.

I don't write as often as I used to. I've slowed down. But I still want to write here because this is who I am. A writer.

I am a writer.

I'm finally admitting this fact in front of all of you. And it feels good.