Since I've been confessing all sorts
of things lately, I'll give you another one. I scrapbook. That's right. I might as well give it up and buy the minivan and the Mom Jeans
now. I used to make disparaging comments about people who scrapbook and even referred to Creative Memories
as a cult. Then I had a baby and I needed to do something with the 50,000 photos I took of Hollis in his first 3 months. Someone invited me to a crop party and the next thing you know, I've spent $250 on scrapbooking materials, papers, and embellishments. I began happily scrapping away, creating a book of lovely photos and memories for Hollis.
But when Hollis was very young (cough*sixmonthsold*cough) we found out I was
having another little bundle of joy. (Actually, I believe T's actual words were "Oh, fuck." Now, that's
one for the baby book.) Pregnancy is not fun for me. I'm not one of those women who walks around
gushing about how wonderful carrying a little miracle is. Pregnancy for me means 9 months (Yes, NINE MONTHS) of barfing, no energy, shooting up with insulin 3 or 4 times a day, and constant medical appointments and sonograms. The second time around I even got to add in a kidney stone, hospitalization, and high blood pressure. It was tons of fun. So basically, I'm just rationalizing the fact that I completely stopped doing any work on Hollis's scrapbook. And I haven't gotten back to it. I make a digital scrap page every now and then (see photo above), but I really haven't been recording all those little milestones and memories for H&H anymore - at least not like I did before. Now, if H&H does something amazing I might jot it down on my calendar or toss a memento into a box. That's about it.
So, of course, I've been flagellating myself for not keeping a diary (like my mother-in-law) or at least a baby book or letters to H&H of some sort. Then last night as I was perusing the comments on my blog, I realized that this is sort of a journal for me. Whether intentional or not, I have (at least for the last few months) been documenting our lives. And my children may someday like my medium even more than a baby book. If they read my blog they'll have insight into so much about me and who I am. Maybe they won't care about that when they're 15, but I bet they will when they're 30. Or after I'm gone and they have children of their own. So I have now completely justified to myself all time that I selfishly spend on my blog!
Oh and I'm never getting a minivan.
Labels: It's All About ME, Mama Drama