I have been noticing that my Sweet R has been toting a composition book around the house, along with a random marker or crayon. After I've sent her to play or read in her room, I've found her laying on her back with her knees up, bracing her marble notebook, scribbling.
It dawned on me that this might be her first official diary.
My first diary was a Pink Hello Kitty beauty, with scented pages. My mother gave it to me, along with a pink gel-inked pen, which was scented too. I was 9.
Each page was so fresh, crisp and new. I wanted to fill each line just so that I could get to the next page, sometimes just drawing happy faces, little hearts and flowers. And yes, I started each entry with "Dear Diary." I brought it with me everywhere, and once it was filled, my mother gave me another one.
She never gave me a diary with a lock, but she always told me that she would never read its contents, and she never did (to my knowledge). I felt free within the contents of its cardboard cover. And as I grew, and wrote, I always looked for a Hello Kitty notebook to scribble in.
I wonder if my own daughter finds peace in the same blank pages, in her drawings and her half-spelled words on paper. In the future, I wonder if she will find a friend, in herself, when she realizes that she will have so much to express. And I wonder if she will feel validated in her feelings, as they are and will be true - her concerns urgent, her sadness tragic, and her happiness pure bliss.
God, I hope so. Because her own mommy finds this same comfort, through a blog instead of a diary, and in writing her story that she hopes her own daughter will eventually read. And to share this love, as it was passed down to me, would be true fulfillment.
Have a wonderful nostalgic night everyone.
