the why. because I needed to remind myself.

I’ve already bemoaned the fast pace of my days lately.

But I still feel a little like reflecting.

I’ve missed a handful of days in the past few weeks writing on the blog in case anyone is keeping track.

Because computers are so tricky smart, however, I can tell that not many people have, in fact, been keeping track.

Which leads me to more whining and self-pity.

I truly try not to even look very long at any stats in regards to this blog at all.

But as they appear on the opening dashboard of the home page it is hard to avert my eyes every time.

So I notice that my “numbers” shrink from time to time.

I can’t help but admit – I find that a little discouraging.

And then I miss a day here or there because I need to plan classes or sleep more or bandage wounds or teach history or fill in the blank.

Which leads me to this thought, “Why am I doing this?”

Why AM I writing these posts and uploading these pictures and pressing “publish”?

It’s certainly not a new question – not new to me and not new to any other mother who has ever pounded keys late into the evening or early in the morning.

I think my conclusion is this:

I matter.

No – I don’t mean I matter and my thoughts are important to the world.

That’s not what I’m saying.

I mean this:

I matter.

I matter and my thoughts matter to the seven other people living in my home.

These words have value and these pictures tell a story to the people I most treasure.

Lord willing and statistically speaking, I hope to be blessed to meet children born to Riley.

Hopefully even the children of a few other of my own children.

But chances are slim that I will play a daily role long term in the lives of the children of Piper Finn and Otto Fox.

It’s a heart-puncturing thought for me.

One I have probably allowed myself to ponder too often.

It is the way my brain operates.

I am intimately familiar with what it feels like to have a parenting moment, a grown adult woman moment, any kind of a moment, in which I wonder if my own mother ever felt the same way.  A moment in which I ponder, did this happen to my momma too?  

I’ve wondered if she truly liked to get up early or if it was a task important enough to her to accomplish regardless of her feelings.

I’d like to know more about her heartbreak and her heart pride watching her children grow up.

I didn’t think to ask enough questions because I hadn’t faced enough stuff myself.

But my momma didn’t keep any journals that I’ve found.

She didn’t own an iPhone and I have almost no recordings of her voice or her direct thoughts.

It’s only what I can remember and we all know how flawed our memories can be.  How self-focused and forgetful.

And so when I write this blog, I feel like, in some cyber manner, it’s a gift to my children in their future lives.

The answer to the question, “Did my momma…?”

So when many suns have set and my daughters and my sons are old enough to see beyond the steps in front of them, when their hearts are tender and their minds are curious, if I am not standing by their side, they can know.

They can hear my voice – saved and ordered by date and topic – they can know what I thought one particular week and at one brief moment in time.

It won’t be all of me.

But it will be pieces of a puzzle.

Pictures of the original.

A taste of what was true for me when I sat at this old wooden desk marked with red Sharpie from an Otto’s two-year-old hand.  (The desk an anniversary gift from both my mother and Kevin’s.  Only mothers know those details.)

It will be the gift I’ve always wanted.

A looking glass of sorts.

Or a crystal ball.

Or something.

Something that says, “My mother was real.  She thought we were funny and she loved to cook and she was afraid of a lot of things and she spent too much time worrying about the future and she didn’t care if we bathed every day and sometimes we ate cereal for dinner and I know she loved us.”