if you want to write to your children
In a few weeks, I will have a class in the Treehouse for this very thing. I should probably post it on my site. See? This is why I wasn’t a marketing major.
Roughly once a month, I sit down and write to Oliver and Lucy. I have been doing this since I was pregnant with Oliver. I began to write to the fetus that became Oliver because I was terrified of becoming a mother. And because my mother had died suddenly six months before I found out I was pregnant, and there were a lot of questions I would have liked to ask, like, “How did you feel when you were pregnant with me? What was your pregnancy like? What was your life like then? Did I kick the crap out of your ribs every night too?”
I also write to them to harness the stories otherwise forgotten. Little stories. Like Lucy sleeping next to her new Barbie last night, and coming downstairs in her pajama bottoms (she decided not to wear a shirt to bed), brushing her new doll’s hair as she whispered a story to no one in particular. How Oliver and his best buddy Miles, their wallets burning with birthday money, emerged triumphant from the toy isle at Target last night, each holding a nerf-style gun that shoots water pellets that was on clearance for $15.00.
I write little things that illustrate a little moment.
I find solace in writing to Ollie and Lu because I am (somewhat psychotically) aware of our nature of being–that anything can happen at any time. My mom dropped dead from a pulmonary embolism one day in December when she was 55. This is real. And this knowledge can scare us or motivate us to pay close attention and love greatly.
The vulnerability of motherhood knocks me over. And motivates me leave something immortal, stories immortal.