Found Words--Marcia

The coffee is brewing, the oatmeal is on, and there's a cat in my lap. It's Wednesday. Blog day. Happy Blog Day to me.

I get to mull over the things I want to write about, the things I should have written in a journal, but no longer keep.

I thought I was going to write about the Trunk-or-Treat/Picnic-Flicknic I put together last Saturday at Roosevelt. But the instant I write the word journal I change my mind.

This is why I don't get much writing done.

I have kept journals, "diaries", FOREVER. I have a giant Rubbermaid tub or two full of all the diaries I've ever kept. I think I started as soon as I could hold a pencil.

I have diaries from Chinatown with silk covers, the black and white school books I love, yellow legal pads, black artist's books meant for drawing, Holly Hobbie puffy plastic ones, "women's" journals from the late eighties, mod-Ikea-like deals from a few years back . . . and now . . . nothing.

A lot of times my diary went something like this: "Amy likes Lisa better than me. My brother hates me. I hate him. I wish his guts would pop out of his eyeballs. I'm going to try to lose weight. Brad said Hi to me today."

In college my journals were all about love, lack of love, thinking about being in love, and my weight.

Well, since I've got the love thing taken care of, I've given up on my weight, what else is there to write about?

James barfed all over the furniture and floors Monday, so I had to do a major housecleaning. In doing so, I unearthed a vintage suitcase. The early precursor to a backpack. It is no bigger than one of the first laptops. navy blue with white piping, it might have held a young lady's satin pajamas, a charmeuse blouse for the next day, a hairbrush, toiletries and her novel, and that's about it.

I haven't paid attention to this suitcase in a long time. I couldn't recall what was in it, despite the fact that it has been sitting on top of a speaker underneath the breakfast bar in my family room for over a year. Sometimes you can find an old newspaper, or the contents of my children's "Monday folders" on top of it.

It took three hours to clean up James' gunk. The room got turned inside out. Furniture was moved.

Daniel came home from school in a foul mood, screaming, crying, red-faced snotty. A clear, and unfortunate, sign that he too was sick. By the time I got back from errands, dad had him banished to his room. Once it dawned on us, that he needed gingerale not horsewhipping I set about setting up the sickbay.

Ensconsed in his bunk bed trying to read, he needed a firm surface for his soda. I remembered the the little suitcase. Perfect. I set him up and left him. I came back later only to find him deep in its contents. I heard my husband ask about it as he was headed in to read to James.

"There's old diaries and stuff," Daniel said as I see an old Hawaiian calendar being passed over the bunk rails down to his brother. Diaries! I resisted the urge to run in and snatch everything.

When I climbed up to read with him, I found a piece of white paper folded over on his comforter.

"What's this?" I asked.

"Oh nothing, just something I wanted to keep."

"Where did you get it?"

"Inside the suitcase." He holds his giant Sponge Bob, his pretend lantern light shone down on his half-guilty face.

"It's okay," I said, "Let's read it."

"I want to keep it up here with me Mom, okay."

"Okay."

I put my head down on the pillow next to him, unfold the paper and hold it up for us to read.
The words, shockingly, are my own.

There is the usual gibberish about my plans to focus on writing despite my lack of attention span. then there is what amounts to treasure in my son's eyes:

"Mother's pride . . . My son is becoming a leader. Already just a few months into his fifth birthday. I could see his power today at the Dojo. He had no fear. He stood up in front of his master, made his quick ferocious moves and shouted his loudest "ki-ais" ever. I watched him maneuver his kicks with perfection and complete his kata. Incredible. He was miles beyond the energy and focus of the other children in his group, even Justin the older boy.

Daniel is cool. Daniel is powerful. Daniel has a way with the children at school. Everybody wants to play with him. He is balanced. Dear God, let it stay that way a while. (Do a karate story)"

Daniel takes the paper from me, carefully folds it, and puts it between his headboard and mattress right by his pillow.

This is not my best writing, but it might be my most important.

It might be time to get a new diary.