About four years ago, after seven years of faithful scrapbooking, I quit. Packed it all up and quit. I even felt a little bit sheepish, honestly, about that row of scrapbooks on my shelf.
But last night one of the boys wanted to know what time of day he was born. He got down his book, which precipitated all the kids getting down their personal books, family books, all the books. They wanted to know if reading scrapbooks counted for homework reading and spent the next hour immersed in the details of their own younger selves.
I don't remember writing those things. I don't remember those things–at all. I don't remember the spilled milk, the smashed fingers, the stray dogs.
Cheesy embellishments aside, I am so grateful I made those books. So grateful I took the time when I had it. So grateful that I don't really even have room for guilt over the past few years which have gone undone. I got the important years of new babies, new changes, new homes, teeth, schools and time. All that time I was blessed to spend at home with my children before they started school
Thank you. To everyone who made, in any way, that possible. To M, for working fifteen, sixteen, eighteen hour days to pay the bills. To his sister for getting me started with my very first album and keeping me supplied all those years. To M for shelling out for film and developing and a new camera when the old one worked perfectly fine. To God for giving me the years, the people and the patience.