I have a paranoid personality (no Mom, it is not entirely your fault, though I am sure you helped develop it). Sometimes when I am lying in bed with the morning light filtering in the window, baby warm at my side, husband snoring to my right, and daughter safely tucked into bed in the room down the hall, I think about dying.
I wonder if my children would feel loved and cared for if I were to die tomorrow. I fight off the huge weight of sorrow that presses down on me at the thought of not seeing them grow up, and I wonder how I can better share my love with them while I am here.
So I have started memory scrapping. It’s not a memory book, cause I suck at keeping track of the exact moment my child ate his or her first peach. It’s not a scrap book, cause it needs to be more than pictures and saved memorabilia. It’s a book of notes and letters, with a few pictures and pieces of memorabilia stuck in.
I have been writing letters to my children when the urge to do so has struck. Some of them contain stories of the things they have done, some simply contain sentiment, and some express my hopes and dreams for their futures.
I purchased some good 12 x 12 scrapbooks and some attractive paper. I stuck the letters in the books. I am leaving plenty of room for more letters. I have post cards, cards, handwritten letters, typed letters, photos, and more.
Marlena has already begun to read some of hers, and she loves to open the book, pick a page, and pluck a letter off of it, to hear some story of her past. She loves reading about the things she did, and loves the nature of the notes.
It is my hope that these letters will tell my children exactly how loved they are, no matter what happens to me.