I meant to post old journal entries here and I meant them to be funny. But after reading through a bunch I just feel like burning the pages. I was miserable. I was depressed. I was a whiner. My babies, apparently, were horrible creatures that needed constant breast feeding and/or holding, and for four years I didn’t leave the house except to go to the hospital to have more babies. Also, editors never appreciated anything I had to say, and nobody wanted me to come work for them, and all my friends secretly hated me. And I ate too much and drank too much and M slept too much. How did I possibly live through such a desolate time?
I do wish I’d recorded a few more of the happy times. I caught some of them. Like when 3 year old T asked “How do I see my own eyes?” Ha! Lines like that are why I had kids. That and the tax break.
Mostly, though, according to these dusty notebooks, I was in a state of constant dejection.
Actually, I was in a state of constant sleep deprivation. I was up nine times a night for five years. I went to bed late, I woke early, and in between I slept lightly and responded to the cries of children with the speed of the wind. How did I not drive off a cliff in despair? Really, I should be shocked at how upbeat I was in spite of never quite reaching REM.
I don’t remember being unhappy, and I think that mostly I wasn’t. I think journals are those safe spots where you can spew the uglies without frightening your husband and children. Reading them now I get a skewed view of Life With Small Children, which really could be the best kind of magic. I remember the first time L ate a banana with T and I cheering him on. I remember sitting on a bench in the sun while my boys buried their feet in the sand and thinking, “I am a woman sitting on a bench in the sun.” I remember gazing out the window into a sweet sunset, feeling the promise of future travels, while a clean-smelling T dozed off beside me in the bed. Even if those moments didn’t get into those books, I still carry them with me. Shining shards among the muddied debris of daily tedium.