Kids. You gotta love 'em. It’s a commandment.
I enjoy journaling when I have the time—which doesn’t happen very often, but recently, I started up again. I love the look of a leather-bound journal, crisp, thick paper, all that. It just seems like a wonderful keepsake that I hope someday my grandchildren will tenderly pick up and wander through.
Yeah, right. They’ll probably rip it from a forgotten corner in the attic and toss it in the garbage without reading a single word.
Still, I’m a writer, and we have great imaginations, so I imagine that one of my descendents will actually browse through these things.
So tonight, I’m watching the grandkids and they’re waiting on their parents to come get them. While waiting, they’re SUPPOSED to be sleeping. As it turns out I have to separate them and one ends up on the couch beside me. I’m at one end writing in my journal and the three-year-old is at the other end, pretending to sleep.
Suddenly, I have to get up and check on the other two girls (who are fighting) and when I come back, I see the three-year-old placing my pen back on the journal.
“I was just fixing this for you,” she promptly offers.
I should have known then something was up, but being a grandmother I thought, “How sweet.”
I shouldn’t have.
When I reopened my journal, I found that said three-year-old had written her two cents worth in scribbles across my crisp, leather-bound journal. The clean paper on which I try so carefully to use my best penmanship was now soiled. Or was it? The more I thought about it, the more I realized her scribbles will mean more to me than a signature by Thomas Kinkade in the years to come as she grows into a woman. So my paper is a little messy? I’ll look at those scribbles one day, glance at the grown woman who had written them long ago and marvel that it seems only yesterday.