There is a special space in my children’s baby books devoted entirely to the development and delivery of a priceless collection of words. A place where parents are encouraged to share how having a baby—this baby, in particular—rocked their proverbial world. A sizeable square into which moms and dads pour a bit of themselves—giving thanks, chronicling ordinary and not-so-ordinary events, articulating hopes and dreams for the future and communicating, above all else, the infinite wonder said child has brought to this place simply by being born. With any luck, most will get a glimpse of it before they become parents themselves.
And it makes perfect sense—this opportunity for crafting a message of boundless love and gratitude—to be presented when parents are fairly awestruck by all that relates to their bundles of neediness. More specifically, before our infants morph into toddlers and tweens, and the urge to snap photographs every hour of every day dwindles to a fleeting desire to fetch the camera when something truly extraordinary happens. Guilty as charged. We all do it, though—we attend less and fall behind more with the passage of time and with each new addition to the family. Not because we become less enamored with our children and feel that documenting every nugget of minutia in their lives is no longer necessary. It’s just that we get caught up in the frenetic, nearly suffocating pace of life.
Well at least I do. And I feel slightly horrible about my failure to record, digitally or otherwise, a goodly portion of my
children’s lives. Like the first time Thing One dared to fling her smallish body off a diving board and paddle to safety without a smidgeon of assistance from anyone or anything. Nor did I capture the priceless look on her face shortly thereafter, as she stood on the deck wrapped from head to toe in a beach towel, cheering on the others in her swim class. What’s more, I neglected to take a snapshot of Thing Two while she was missing both of her front teeth. Of course, I took dozens of pictures to preserve that memorable wedge of time for her sister, several of which are prominently
displayed on the fridge. Let us just say that I’ve been reminded of said faux pas more than once. I suppose it’s a moot point now, however. The endearing little gaps along her pinkish gums have long since been filled. Indeed, there’s no going back.
Likewise, I failed to listen to the little voice inside my head that insisted I help my oldest move into her college dormitory. “Meet the roommates,” it cooed. “Take a pile of pictures and throw them together in a collage for her birthday,” it smartly suggested. Instead, like a fool, I honored my co-ed’s wishes for independence, allowing her to bridge the gap from home to campus life entirely on her own. In retrospect, the lugging of boxes teeming with all-that-is-vital-to-college-freshmen was a little thing that would have perhaps meant a lot to her—no matter how desperately she wanted to feel grown. No doubt, a do-over in this instance is a virtual impossibility and no one is more keenly aware of that than I. Shame on me.
As delusional as it sounds to suggest that my brood may feel slighted or even devalued as a result of the aforementioned transgressions (never mind those I failed to mention), I still lament owning them. But at least I have their baby books—and the personalized notes I scrawled therein. Better still, I have tomorrow—Absolutely Incredible Kid Day—a chance to formally redeem myself once more.
That said, this Thursday is a date set aside for the purpose of letting the impressionable youth in our charge know how
truly remarkable they are. For years Camp Fire USA and Alpha Phi Omega have orchestrated a nationwide letter-writing campaign to do just that. It gives those who play an integral role in the lives of children (parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles, as well as adults from all walks of life) a chance to say what they need to say. To put it on paper, as it were—a mere smattering (or a profusion) of words that speak directly to the heart, quietly, yet effectively, conveying the message: “You are special, and valued and loved unconditionally. You add sunshine and meaning and a wealth of good to this world. Ergo, you are an absolutely incredible kid. Please, never forget that.”
Tomorrow, make a pledge to say what you need to say to the children who matter most to you—and be sure to write from the heart.
Planet Mom: It’s where I live (crafting three very special letters as we speak).
Copyright 2011 Melinda L. Wentzel
Planet Mom 