I'd say neither Martin nor I are very sentimental people. We have two pictures of our kids on the wall upstairs (yes, count them--two. And we have three kids). We have no family photos anywhere but we do have a lovely watercolor I commissioned from Christen Mattix of the three girls and Charley--but I especially requested that it not be too representational. So if anyone broke into our house, looking for information on our identities, they would certainly not find it on the walls.
There are no photo albums for any of the girls besides Merry--I had four years to make that one before Elspeth came along, and that I did begrudgingly, cutting unevenly and slapping them into the pages. Sometimes the other girls flip through that album and inevitably one of them asks, "What about me? Do I have any pictures?" Sorry, girls.
But we do have my old blog, Notes from Wazoo Farm, which follows the girls for seven years while we lived in Pennsylvania in a historical farmhouse in the midst of a wild garden, a resident groundhog and snake, and two fancifully colored outbuildings that Martin built. I blogged then to keep sane in that chaotic time of kids being home and guests streaming through our doors.
Recently, at Merry's lead, we've been browsing through some old posts, laughing at Elspeth's many, many wild antics, such as this one, where she covered herself and baby Bea with orange oil pastel. In another post, I record her tracing a barely-formed wrinkle between my brows and asking, "How do you do that?" Now that wrinkle is deeply etched. It will be with me until I die. I think I will call it my Elspeth wrinkle--or maybe just my parenthood wrinkle.Seven years of family history. Now Merry is going on 14 and I find myself asking the same cliche questions I remember older people always murmuring: "My, how time flies," or "I remember when you were this small," or "It feels like just yesterday when. . ." I've joined the ranks. I'm murmuring the same things, and sometimes I look around at all the big people in my house and wonder, How did you people get here? Or I mistake Mer for another grown-up at the grocery store, and then I think, Wait just a minute. That's my daughter.
As Judy Collins sings, Who knows where the time goes?
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