I feel this is one of my biggest failings as person, and as a mother. My kids will not have albums upon album to look back upon, or external hard drives filled with photos.
I am not an artist, I don’t have that special something that allows some people to take a blank canvas or lump of clay and make something lovely.
I, do however, fancy myself a storyteller- not an author, I am not that bold, but a teller of tales, both the true and the legend. Someone who, on a good day, can take the words and put them together in just the right order, and sometimes the person reading those words or listening to them can leave where they are sitting and join me in the story.
I am compelled to tell these stories, for my kids especially. the life that Dave and I have chosen, decisions about careers and school, mean that our kids will not have a childhood home that they can always come back to, a familiar building where the memories lurk in every corner. For Kjell, Broder and Sunny, their childhood is not so much about where we are, but what we do. And the memories of what we do, the everyday, and the extra special, the joyous and the frightening. This is what they will have.
So, I tell my family and friends and strangers these stories, in hopes that the pictures I don’t take can somehow be recreated with vowels and consonants, and inflection and punctuation.
I tell the stories in print and out loud, and sometimes in my head, to anyone who will listen and some who don’t.
The stories are my photo album.
Entropy: blather from my disorderly mind. 