The Scrapbook

I’ve been writing a lot lately.  Besides what you see published here, I’m also working on branding the blog, writing additional “A Mama’s Point of View” essays (for which I’m currently experiencing a frustrating bout of writer’s block), and working on the elusive Book (with a capital B).  As a result of all of this writing – on my stunning little MacBook Air laptop with the amazing mouse pad that performs all kinds of magic tricks with a flick of the wrist and the magic touch of the index finger – I’ve developed early symptoms of Carpel Tunnel Syndrome.  Yay me!  Now, the list of my extremities that have pins and needles has jumped from one (my left foot) to two (my left foot and my right hand).  Sigh.

By the way, the EMG and nerve conduction test on my left leg came back negative, which means my nerves and muscles are working well enough.  The doctor said I can do two things:  (1) nothing or (2) have an MRI of my lumbar spine.  Together, we decided to wait a few weeks and then regroup and decide about the MRI.  Another sigh.

Over the weekend, I took a break from writing to give my right wrist a rest.  This wasn’t easy, nor was spending money on a boring mouse pad with a gel-filled wrist rest.  I would have much preferred shopping for espadrilles.  With writing off the table, I decided to finally sort through my mess of an office/guest bedroom/storage room otherwise known as Harry’s bedroom.

The last time my parents visited, my Dad brought me a big pile of “stuff” from my childhood that had been gathering dust in his basement since the late 1970s.  On a previous flight, he brought two cases of my grandmother’s Waterford crystal wine glasses as his carry-on bag.  The man is capable of anything.  He desperately wants to bring me my wedding dress, which was cleaned and sealed professionally in 2002, but I keep threatening to rip it out the box and put it on to see if it still fits if he dares show up with it.  So far, he’s held on to it, but I think my days are numbered.

Anyway, the big pile of stuff had been gathering dust in my house since Christmas.  I figured I would throw most of it away, but once I started sorting through it, nostalgia got the best of me.  (Yes, Dad, this is me saying thank you for schlepping my scrapbook from your house to mine.)

Behold…

I found countless award certificates from short story and poetry contests I entered in middle school and high school.  I had forgotten how much writing meant to me, even back then.

Then there were the pictures of me when I was in nursery school and Kindergarten.  I showed this one to Dylan and he said, “Was I in your belly then?”  Um, gross.  Riley just laughed and said, “That’s not Mommy!”

Gotta love the bowl cut.  Thanks, Mom!

Here’s my early handwriting from Kindergarten.  For all of my worries about Dylan’s fine motor skills and, well, everything else a Mama could possibly worry about, his handwriting looks better than mine did at the same age.

And here’s Dylan’s:

And here’s a masterpiece I actually remember creating in the first grade:

“When I grow up, I want to be a waitress.  I will serve nice food to the people.”  Priceless.  Actually, I did wait tables in high school.  And being a mom is kind of like being a waitress, except I don’t get tips.

This trip down memory lane made me realize (1) I’m old and (2) I better get crackin’ on Dylan and Riley’s scrapbooks so someday I can schlep them from my house to theirs.