My firstborn turned 21 last week.
The highlight of the day, for me, was a notebook.
I’ve been keeping journals for my boys since they were young. I wrote Christian's first entry when he was two years old—an anecdote about his favorite stuffed animal, Beary.
The journals are nothing fancy—just plain-old Mead notebooks with plastic covers. For the first few years of the boys' lives, I wrote every couple weeks or months. In more recent years, I've sat down to write just once a year or so.
I don't record everything. I don't try to encompass an entire year of memories in a single entry. I write about whatever is happening at the time I sit down. And it's not my most stellar writing. In fact, if you were to sneak a peek, you'd catch plenty of scribbled-out mistakes and questionable penmanship.
What the pages do have going for them is stories—stories I hope will tell a little bit about who my sons were and what they've meant to me as they've grown up.
In one long-ago entry in my younger son's notebook, for example, I wrote about how he wandered sleepily into my room in the middle of the night. I opened my eyes to see my then-preschooler standing next to my bed.
“You’re room looks nice,” he said.
“I cleaned it,” I told him.
“You did a really good job,” he replied, patting my face.
And then he went back to his room.
That ranks up there among the strangest conversations I’ve ever had at 3 a.m. But I love going back and reading about it every few years.
One of my favorite entries from Christian's notebook is the story of his first day of second grade—and how his dad and I secretly met the bus at school. In his notebook, I write how my heart swelled as we sat in our car, silently watching him help his little brother off the bus. Watching him make sure his little brother found his kindergarten classroom's line. How he made sure Bergen made it into the school before finding his own line.
When I started Christian's notebook, I didn't know what my end goal was. But as the years progressed, I decided I'd give him the journal as a 21st birthday gift: 18-plus years of memories on lined paper, recorded and wrapped in a bow.
As I wrote my final entry on the afternoon of Christian's 21st birthday, though, I realized that the notebook has really been a gift to me. Reading through it over the years has allowed me to travel time and recall moments I'd forgotten. The funny things. The heart-string things. The milestones. The dreams, the frustrations, the favorites.
When I handed the journal to Christian on his 21st birthday on the Little Thistle patio—when I surprised him with a collection of memories that he didn't know I had been recording—he said, "This is my favorite gift."
And I thought, "Mine, too."
The highlight of the day, for me, was a notebook.
I’ve been keeping journals for my boys since they were young. I wrote Christian's first entry when he was two years old—an anecdote about his favorite stuffed animal, Beary.
The journals are nothing fancy—just plain-old Mead notebooks with plastic covers. For the first few years of the boys' lives, I wrote every couple weeks or months. In more recent years, I've sat down to write just once a year or so.
I don't record everything. I don't try to encompass an entire year of memories in a single entry. I write about whatever is happening at the time I sit down. And it's not my most stellar writing. In fact, if you were to sneak a peek, you'd catch plenty of scribbled-out mistakes and questionable penmanship.
What the pages do have going for them is stories—stories I hope will tell a little bit about who my sons were and what they've meant to me as they've grown up.
In one long-ago entry in my younger son's notebook, for example, I wrote about how he wandered sleepily into my room in the middle of the night. I opened my eyes to see my then-preschooler standing next to my bed.
“You’re room looks nice,” he said.
“I cleaned it,” I told him.
“You did a really good job,” he replied, patting my face.
And then he went back to his room.
That ranks up there among the strangest conversations I’ve ever had at 3 a.m. But I love going back and reading about it every few years.
One of my favorite entries from Christian's notebook is the story of his first day of second grade—and how his dad and I secretly met the bus at school. In his notebook, I write how my heart swelled as we sat in our car, silently watching him help his little brother off the bus. Watching him make sure his little brother found his kindergarten classroom's line. How he made sure Bergen made it into the school before finding his own line.
When I started Christian's notebook, I didn't know what my end goal was. But as the years progressed, I decided I'd give him the journal as a 21st birthday gift: 18-plus years of memories on lined paper, recorded and wrapped in a bow.
As I wrote my final entry on the afternoon of Christian's 21st birthday, though, I realized that the notebook has really been a gift to me. Reading through it over the years has allowed me to travel time and recall moments I'd forgotten. The funny things. The heart-string things. The milestones. The dreams, the frustrations, the favorites.
When I handed the journal to Christian on his 21st birthday on the Little Thistle patio—when I surprised him with a collection of memories that he didn't know I had been recording—he said, "This is my favorite gift."
And I thought, "Mine, too."