Don't worry, I won't embed audio

It started with a small pink book with a brass lock and the word "Diary" stamped in gold on the cover. I was in 2nd grade the year I got my first journal as a Christmas gift, and strangely enough, I still remember some of the entries recorded in it: important items like what I selected from book orders that month, how unfair it was when Megan went out with mom and got TWO new pairs of shoes when I got NONE, and a particularly dramatic account of Christian throwing up at the dinner table.

I have kept a journal in some fashion for the last 22 years.

They started out traditional in style, with each entry opening with "Dear Diary," in my best penmanship. In the middle school years, journal pages were peppered with pie charts representing my preteen crushes, and various expletives addressed to any snooping siblings. (What a clever little sixth-grader I was... no one could tattle on my swearing without indicting themselves for reading forbidden material from under their sister's mattress. Brilliant, I know.) The diagrams in purple ball-point made way for moody stream-of-consciousness poetry in the high school years, then sketch books in college. During the nine months of my engagement, my journal took the form of a long letter for Derek, and the nine months of my pregnancy with Eden produced a nine month-long journal for her. Since starting this blog last February, it has become my primary means of private record, in a not-so-private medium. I haven't researched it enough to comment on the phenomenon of weblogging, but I have noticed one idiosyncracy in particular.

I've come to realize that, no matter how realistic my descriptions or nitty gritty the pictures, when I read back over the days and weeks and months of my life, there is a rosy, idyllic haze hovering around them... I can look at photos posted and vaguely recall the stressful events of that day, and yet all I can *see* is a sweet babe frozen in time, a child who looks innocent sweet and much smaller than the one in front of me.

The photos are silent.

A good portion of this post was composed while Eden had a crying, yelling, gagging, ugly, drag-out fit. I'd go into details about why it was worth the power struggle, but honestly, after hearing that maddening, gnawing-on-my-nerve-endings racket for 56+ eternal minutes, it's about all I can do to see straight to clean her up and put her down for a (now late) nap. Of course I want to come out on the other end of this stage with a well-behaved, well-adjusted child who feels loved and validated and WHATEVER, but today, right this second, I just want to COME OUT OF THIS STAGE ALIVE, WITH MY HEAD UNEXPLODED AND STILL ATTACHED TO MY BODY. Also, it'd be nice if my two-year-old didn't pick up any choice four-letter words from her mom because she wouldn't eat her lunch. (No tattling loophole this time...)

Ahhhhh.... taking a deep breath. I'm starting to relax, which only stands to reason as I hear Judah waking up from his nap. I don't have any photos of the Great Chicken McNugget Battle of '09, but I do have an image of the stage my kids are in... the part I want and NEED to remember. The hazy, idyllic truth...