Throughout my life, in fits and spurts, I've kept a diary/journal for the usual things: as a way to remember past big events, as an outlet for thoughts and feelings. (I remember, for awhile, I even dabbled in poetry writing.) The last time I was home (in Cheyenne), I found some of my old journals and I had a good laugh re-reading what I wrote. Part of it is a more mature me examining the less mature me; part of it is finding that I've re-prioritized and essentially become a different person. Anyway I was reflecting on this the other day and on how much I've enjoyed keeping a "public" journal, and wishing that I'd started one sooner. Because I find in the chaos of kids that, more and more, I need to keep some sort of record, not only so I won't forget, but also to make room for other and new things.
...Ohmigosh, it just occurred to me that this, i.e. this post, is 1) my pregnancy brain on the fritz; and 2) the beginnings of my getting sentimental on Alaska.
