For as long as I can remember, well not really, just since I was 7 or so (I have snatches of memories from when I was 4, I remember going in school in a green jumper and white shirt) I've kept some kind of diary, journal or something. I don't have sisters, my brothers certainly weren't confidante material and my mom rarely talked to me about much more than being a "good girl," the diary was my friend.
I wrote stuff down. A lot of stuff. Regrettably, I don't have much any of the earlier writings. We moved around a lot; we lost, left or gave away much over the years. I learned early to live light and to pack lighter.
Some of the later editions were lost in an unfortunate pipe bursting incident. A few days ago I found a sketch book that I thought I had lost. The sketch book apparently did double duty as a makeshift journal.
The brief notations centered on my early parenting hopes dreams, skills (or fears for the lack thereof) and snippets of the lives of a toddler YM through infant YL.
Late 1984: "YM turned 2 this year, he will however, tell you he's 5." I was starting to feel a bit more confident in my role as a parent. There was some goofy young mom gushiness about life in general. I must have been feeling pretty warm and fuzzy, which most likely led to the conception of YL, as she was born toward the end of 1985.
Smatterings of gushy stuff fill out some of the other entries. There was also the obligatory disgust with YB and the fact that OB had been voluntarily *missing* for 7 years.
June 1986: "YL is crawling and standing with assistance. She doesn't have any teeth." I was happy on this day at this time. I didn't write about it, at least here in the sketch book, but as I recall the walls started crumbling shortly after this. But on that day in June of 1986, watching my baby daughter crawl and learn to stand; watching her big brother look out for her and watching their dad look like he was happy to be there, on that day in June, all was right.