Wednesday, November 02, 2005

I Hate Scrapbooking

I had a breakthrough the other day. I realized and acknowledged that I hate scrapbooking. That may seem as profound to you as the fact that toenails need clipping, but I found it very liberating. I have been surrounded by a bevy of overachieving scrapbookers who chronicle every single event of their lives and the lives of their children. I always feel vaguely uncomfortable reading the "journal entries" on those perfectly executed pages, as though I caught little miss scrapbooker in her underpants and saw something I really never desired to see. With my epiphany came a lifting of a great burden. In the past, I felt guilty for being a bad parent. My children's baby books are not so much books as a collection of papers shoved inside the bindings in no particular order. And their pictures can be found somewhere in some box in the storage unit I'll clean out some day. I'm sure the scrapbookers with their memories intact, their pristinely organized shelves of paper and supplies, and their endless zeal can lay claim to being better parents and better human beings than I, but I'm hoping that my kids will give me credit for living life with them instead of spending all my time chronicling it. Maybe they'll forgive me like I forgave my parents, eventually, for not being all I thought they should have been. And if they don't, that's okay. They can journal about it in their scrapbook. Or not. If they are anything like their mother.


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