I have two old plastic snap cases
under my bed. One of them holds cast-off
and never-used school supplies: a plastic protractor, spiral notebooks,
page
protectors, folders, erasers, and index cards.
For years it was the place the kids ransacked when they all of a sudden
needed something for homework or for school the next day. We all still
rummage through it from time to
time, so I suppose it will stay there awhile longer. The other dusty
snap case holds
treasures. In it are notes from the kids
from over the years ("Mommy, I think I left my jeans at track!" "Dear
tooth fairy, we lost my
tooth and can’t find it . . . " "Hey there, Ma
. . . just hoping you have a good week while we’re in FLA" "Mom, get me
up at 5:45 or whenever you get
up . . . I got work to do!"). It also holds pictures they drew, stories
they wrote, tapes
they made, and notebooks they kept. There's a paper flower on a paper
stem, one of the first things my oldest son ever made me and a little
spray of fake flowers, the first present he ever bought me. The box
also houses three composition notebooks, one for each of my kids. I
started writing letters to them in
1991. At first I wrote several times a
year; later on I wrote less frequently, often around their birthdays.
The last entries are from 2009. In each entry, I tried to capture who
they
were at that moment—I recorded things they said, things they did,
favorite
foods and games and TV shows. My
original plan was to give the notebooks to them when they left for
college, but the timing didn't seem quite right.
Then I thought I might give them to them when they graduated from
college,
but I didn’t do that either. I can’t
quite decide just when they will be most ready to read them. When they
turn 30? When they have kids of their own? I guess when the time is
right, I'll know it. For now, they’ll stay in the box I keep under
my bed.
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