dear silly girl,
i’m trying to figure out what i want to do with these letters. i wrote before that i wanted to try to tie in a moral or something with these letters, but i can’ t always do that. sometimes i just want you to know what we’re doing and what i’m thinking.
why do i want you to know what i’m thinking?
maybe it’s so you will know that i wasn’t always old, which is how i assume you will always view me. maybe it’s so that if something ever happens to me, you’ll have some of my thoughts about life and motherhood written down. maybe it’s so i’ll know what the heck i think about things and can see how my opinions change over time. maybe it’s because i know nothing about my mother except that her grandma taught her how to cook, and she didn’t share that bit of trivia with me until i was 27.
i don’t really know why. i just want to know you and let you know me. and i don’t actually know what i’m doing, ya know? i didn’t have parents from this age of “intentional parenting.” my sister and i were not the center of their whole world. that’s how parents are today, though, and i can’t imagine it any other way.
i just want there to be a record of what i thought so that when you wonder what the heck was going on in my head when you were a child, you’ll have somewhere to look. we both know that my memory leaves much to be desired. as young as i am right now, i can forget what i was thinking or supposed to be doing by the time i walk into another room. i could not live my life with any success without post-its and the calendar on my phone. it’s a sad, sad truth.
and speaking of truth, i’m toying with the idea of writing a book of memoirs or a book based on them. i have material for days being a part of the loony-bird family i belong to and quite frankly, i can’t afford therapy right now. long story short, mema’s terrible decisions are making me crazy and sending me down the path of high blood pressure and the risk of stroke. one cannot make up the things this woman does.
in heartburn by nora ephron she tells a friend why she turns everything into a story. she says,
Because if I tell the story, I control the version.
Because if I tell the story, I can make you laugh, and I would rather have you laugh at me than feel sorry for me.
Because if I tell the story, it doesn’t hurt as much.
Because if I tell the story, I can get on with it.”
and that’s exactly how i feel about it. even if things hurt 20 years after they’ve happened, if i can tell the story and make it funny, it makes it easier for me to accept it. i get to have my say and then let it go.
and all of that brings me to this:
i hope you write.
i hope you write your own stories. write what you feel and think and observe. write it all down. write every happy and painful and angry and joyful expression you want. write about your hopes, your dreams, your disappointments.
why? because they’re yours.
and that’s really all the reason you need.