In Black and White

Years ago when the oldest was four, the middle was two, and the youngest was still in the womb, I began writing in three separate journals. In the first, I opened up with tales of a t-ball game and the parental pride that goes along with it. In the second, I detailed a peek into the life of a toddler and the challenges of bedtime. In the third, I simply opened with "Dear Baby" because although the upcoming birthday was just two months away, we didn't know if the fluffy blankets would be purchased in pink or blue.

Last night, the oldest came home for a visit and I found myself digging into a cedar chest of treasures. I had never shown the kids these journals, but seeing as how the entire family was in the same room for the moment, I seized the day, so to speak, and handed them each their own special book. What followed was laughs and questions and memories.

The oldest read his quietly. The middle read his aloud.
The youngest just marveled at how much her big brothers loved her.

There were tales of new words and phrases being spoken, the ever-present paddle that was never far from reach, and even a few drawings and outlines of hands and feet. Each read the story of the day they asked Jesus into their heart. Each read the story of grandparents who have since left this world. Each read stories of special friends and special pets and special days.

Each read the story of them.

Although I did not make an entry every night- after all, not long into the story of the youngest was I able to actually call her by name and welcome her into the world... life with three kids under the age of five did not allow for a lot of downtime; but I still found some time, however, to carve out for them their own little slice of something special. All in all, the three books covered a time span of seven years.

Years that I now wonder where in the world time went.

They read those journals from beginning to end. As I collected them back to tuck away into our treasure chest, they thanked me and remarked how much they enjoyed reading them. As I tried to sleep last night, I wondered why I ever stopped writing to them. Life, I'm sure. In fact, now that I think about it, it wasn't too long after the last entries that our world took a turn in the form of The Great Move. Life became less about preserving our memories and more about preserving our sanity. The books were closed and the pen was capped.

But you know what? I'm gonna pick up where I left off. There will come a day when those books will be my words those kids hear in their head. I'm going to do my best to keep them laughing.

The oldest is twenty-one. The middle is nineteen.
The youngest is days away from seventeen.

There's plenty of stories left to tell.




Your mom and dad love you, kids.