A few things transpired and pushed me to start a diary recently.
It was necessary to note when my baby was eating, and in what quantities, and the habit of logging all that led me to start thinking.
Also, I was remembering Glenn Close's mother. Apparently, when this person was dying, she said to her daughter--to Glenn--"I didn't do anything with my life."
And, also, because of paternity leave, I just had a great deal of time on my hands.
Because I like rules, and especially arbitrary rules, I decided that each entry had to fill two pages. Thoughts could be as banal as: "The sky is blue." I would try to include some observations about the baby every morning.
The writing is really bad; it's sometimes as dull as dishwater; it's often just sentence fragments. But a great deal is growing out of it. When I keep a diary, I remind myself of things I need to do. Writing a diary somehow led me to recall that my child didn't have a Halloween costume, and that led to visions of glue guns, and felt squares, and soon enough there were costume sketches and Amazon orders in the works. This was the highlight of my weekend.
When I record some fraught exchange in a diary, I'm forced to ask if my version of events is actually the Gospel truth. I have to look at my own assumptions. I love this. It leads me to pay closer attention to details in my own daily life. And then I'm calmer as I deal with small problems.
Lastly, I become aware of tiny gems--things I might otherwise overlook. When house-hunting, my husband locates the stuffed animals in any child's room and begins talking to those animals, or making the animals talk, or both. When my father-in-law sees our baby, he is somehow transported back to the 1930s, and he begins recalling moments from his own childhood. When you hold a baby, you get a little show of bizarre and lively facial expressions: James Bond Villain, Nervous Accountant, "Yikes, I Just Ate a Sour Grape."
These little surprises keep me cheery, and interested.
Something worth trying, if you have time.
It was necessary to note when my baby was eating, and in what quantities, and the habit of logging all that led me to start thinking.
Also, I was remembering Glenn Close's mother. Apparently, when this person was dying, she said to her daughter--to Glenn--"I didn't do anything with my life."
And, also, because of paternity leave, I just had a great deal of time on my hands.
Because I like rules, and especially arbitrary rules, I decided that each entry had to fill two pages. Thoughts could be as banal as: "The sky is blue." I would try to include some observations about the baby every morning.
The writing is really bad; it's sometimes as dull as dishwater; it's often just sentence fragments. But a great deal is growing out of it. When I keep a diary, I remind myself of things I need to do. Writing a diary somehow led me to recall that my child didn't have a Halloween costume, and that led to visions of glue guns, and felt squares, and soon enough there were costume sketches and Amazon orders in the works. This was the highlight of my weekend.
When I record some fraught exchange in a diary, I'm forced to ask if my version of events is actually the Gospel truth. I have to look at my own assumptions. I love this. It leads me to pay closer attention to details in my own daily life. And then I'm calmer as I deal with small problems.
Lastly, I become aware of tiny gems--things I might otherwise overlook. When house-hunting, my husband locates the stuffed animals in any child's room and begins talking to those animals, or making the animals talk, or both. When my father-in-law sees our baby, he is somehow transported back to the 1930s, and he begins recalling moments from his own childhood. When you hold a baby, you get a little show of bizarre and lively facial expressions: James Bond Villain, Nervous Accountant, "Yikes, I Just Ate a Sour Grape."
These little surprises keep me cheery, and interested.
Something worth trying, if you have time.
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