Maybe because my daughter is 7, the same aged version of my former self pops in to my head quite a lot these days. Dungaree clad, in my pokka dot shirt with airplane collar – buttoned to the neck. I’m wearing clogs or T-bar shoes. Most likely its clogs. My wide open face full of hope and entitlement. What must mini-me make of me now! I’m guessing she’s proud of my progeny. Especially this one. Amber is so like I was at her age. Last night when I put her to bed, she pleaded to finish her diary entry and fell asleep gripping her pen. The OCD that overshadowed my teenage years probably started around about my eight or ninth year and I’ve been watching for the tell-tale signs – ready to pounce and reassure. Amber’s obsessions are mild at the moment so no intervention needed yet.
” 7/10/11. I lost the pencil that I’m writing with right now, it was in the middle of the road. Alma (her pal) begged and begged her mum to get it until she said yes..finaly those precious words came out. They got it for me. Thats a relife (relief!).”
Quoted without the author’s permission but with parental consent.
The need to record events, to document, runs deep within me and that seed has taken root in my daughter too. There are other traits I’m not proud of passing on, but this isn’t one of them.
Amber and her brother Sawyer love me to read excerpts from their baby journals. Though created to record the first year, I scribble little updates all over the place. And when I visit my own parents – who were way to0 busy rearing children to be reflective- I seek out the blue faux leather BWIA (British West Indian Airlines – no longer in existence) crested flight bag – jammed with my diaries crammed full of my highs, my lows and later my teenage angst. I dip in and out of those days and know I am disappointing those mini-me’s. They are still with me though and despite the time warp, the ravages of years, we are, all of us, hopeful.