Confused? There are so many blogs written by older ladies (not OLD, old--just older than I am right now) talking about how tough it is to be the age their readers are and encouraging them that their effort is not in vain. There is so much wisdom and insight in their words to their readers. There is beauty. I am a writer, but as a stay at home mom, I feel so incredibly disconnected from women/girls/whatever you want to call those ages younger than me. What could I write to the college student struggling to find a reason why she’s spending so much money to get an English literature degree when jobs for said degree don’t pay enough to cover the cost of her debt?
Recently, I saw a group of those college girls at Starbucks. Young faces, stressed over grades, but smiling with friends in the camaraderie that only comes from sharing classes together. Their hair was simply arranged--straightened, scrunched, in a ponytail. Their faces were made up because you never leave the dorm without something on your face. They wore oversized sweatshirts with their college’s name on them and they slowly drank their coffee--a pleasant splurge for the Poor, Starving College Student. They didn’t see me. I know because I never saw young mothers when I was a Poor, Starving College Student, I only saw their adorable babies and toddlers.
Not only would these girls likely not noticed me, but they probably wouldn’t care to hear anything I had to say. Just as well. Older ladies have MUCH more insight into their lives than I do. Shoot, I haven’t even mothered a school-aged child, let alone a college-aged one.
Sorry. That was a rabbit trail.
The clarification is this--I’m writing to myself now in the voice of myself in the future, but I don’t claim to have traveled through time. The reason I’m doing this is because I need to speak truth to myself. I need to do this regularly. I need to remind myself that the stage of life of finding baby snot on my boobs isn’t going to last forever. Also, the stage of smelling a newborn baby’s head isn’t going to last forever. So, in the wisdom that will come from someone who has made it through, I will encourage myself.
I also want to take note now of those things I will likely forget. I want to remember how Samuel repeats, “Beeeeg truck” and “twain twacks.” I want to remember how Marianne first started cooing at Geoffrey one evening. I want to remember Samuel climbing somewhere near me, needing to make some kind of physical contact while he played by himself. I want to remember how Samuel would so eagerly run to put Marianne’s pacifier in her mouth when she started crying.
