Unearthing Hidden Gems: The Gift of our Children's Writing

There was a period in my life when I was a stay-at-home-mom. 

There were times when I worked during those years, long-term subbing positions, a caterer for a beautiful, little cafe on the mountain, and for a local retreat center. 

I’m not sure what I was doing the summer that I had the kids keep “Communication Journals”.

(I’m not sure who came up with the name; I like to think it wasn’t me, it just sounds too unimaginative.) 

The idea of the journal was that I would leave a note for each of my kids in their journals, and they would write back.  We could ask questions, write about our days, or anything we wanted.

The idea was to get my kids writing over the long summer. And secretly, I adored their adorable attempts at writing and loved the way they put sounds together (reading geek, I know!).

Nineteen years later, I found my son’s Communication Journal.  I can’t find my daughter's yet, but I’m sure it will show up….I’ll keep looking.  

I had big plans, but it looks like we dropped the idea pretty quickly.  

Or maybe I stopped working and leaving the house in the morning.  

Or maybe we switched over to a different journal.

Whatever the reason, I’m so thrilled to have this little piece of specialness that I can tuck in my heart and pull it out when I want.

The first page begins with a prompt from me:

“Dear Mom,” and the date, July 2006.

I left it on the counter for Lincoln to find in the morning.

When I came home from work, the journal was waiting for me on the kitchen counter.

“Dear Mom,

y dsoud the seapis.

y do you love me.

Love Lincoln”

Translation:   

"Dear Mom, 

You destroyed the surprise.

Why do you love me?

Love, Lincoln”

I have no memory of the 'surprise' he was referencing.

“Why do you love me?”

That question affected me so much then, and still does.  

Why do you love me?

Do all kids wonder this?

Did my daughter wonder?

Did he feel unlovable?

Or was he just curious?

Or just making conversation?

I don’t know.  And when I asked him recently, he had no memory of writing it.

But here is the answer that I wrote in his journal:

“Dear Lincoln,

Hi, I’m sorry that I destroyed the surprise. (sad face)

You asked me why I love you.  That is a great question!

I am so happy to answer it! (smile face)

I love you because you grew in my belly.

I’ve loved you since before you were even born!

I love you because you’re kind and sweet and funny

and smart and silly.   I love you because you have an amazing 

imagination and you tell great stories.

I love you because I would be happy to hug you all day 

and because you’re mine.

Love, Mommy (smile face)”

If I were to write that note to him now, maybe I would change some things. 

Maybe I would have written that I love him:

Just Because.

Because he is made of star-stuff

Because there is no one else like him in the entire 

UNIVERSE

Because he brought color to my formerly black-and-white life

Because he is perfect just by being himself

Because I can’t imagine a world 

where he isn’t 

But I kept it short.  And I think he got the message.  

The journal peters out after my anemic attempts to keep it going. We were probably distracted by the next shiny object.

But I wish, I really wish, we kept it going.  Imagine what a beautiful treasure we would have if we were able to communicate like that longer.  

Before the angsty teen years. 

Before adulthood.

Before I was no longer the sun in his universe.