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I began by recounting his already adventurous life in the womb, and went on to tell him about my hopes and dreams for his future, along with my fears of the challenges that lie in wait for me. I also told him just how much I loved him already.
For the past five years I’ve filled this journal with a page here and there, every week or so, continuing this love letter to my son. I’ve tucked away, as if in a time capsule, his first smile, how in love he was with his “toots,” and even the seriously frustrating days that I plan to remind him of when he’s in a position to deliver some serious payback. Let me tell you, if the house caught fire, this is the one possession that I would risk my life to save.
Whenever I’m tempted to finish off the letter, admitting that now with two boys I no longer have time for journaling, I’m reminded of all the wondrous gifts I have within its pages. Any time a really bad day makes me wonder if I’m up to the task at all, I can turn to the first time I tried to feed, or burp, or bathe him, having nary a clue and making it work nonetheless.
Whenever I’m full of myself over some perceived parenting “victory,” I can bring myself back to reality by reading about the 2-year old stage when our house appeared more like a sitcom than a nurturing home. And whenever it brings me to tears to think that his first years are over, never to return, I’m reminded that I can go back and relive the highlights with just a flip of the page.
Linda Kastiel Kozlowski is a freelance writer who continues to journal for her two sons, and for herself.
