So, I'm spending my quiet Friday writing letters to my boys. One for each.
It may seem like I got the idea from Heather "Dooce" Armstrong's monthly letters to Leta. And maybe on an unconscious level, I did. But I can tell you what really made me want to do this: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows.
I'm a re-reader, and the previews for the film have me atwitter and desperate to dive back into that universe and revel in it anew. The other night, I got to the part -- and this is not a spoiler, at least, not the way I'm wording it -- where Harry finds a letter that his mother wrote to somebody in her own hand. He notes similarities in their handwriting, like the way they write their Gs, and says -- I'm paraphrasing -- that each was like a little wave, and there's something in that moment that is profoundly moving to me. I started thinking, what if the worst does happen, and the boys have nothing so personal of me? If their peeks into my handwriting, things I've written and touched, do not extend beyond duplicate checks? Some of the most intimate things I've read have been on the Internet, and ditto some of the most intimate things I've written. It's freeing, this easy, quick medium for unleashing your heart. But it's not necessarily personal, and all the typed characters in the world can't replace the warmth you feel from seeing words formed by a person's own fingers clasped around a pen.
So I'm writing these letters out, longhand, and tucking them into envelopes affixed to a blank page in their baby books (when those books come into being, anyway). But I'm sharing them here as a record, of what they've done, how I felt, and above all, in case the freehand versions somehow get lost or damaged through time. Harry only had a piece of his mother's missive; at least this way I can guarantee they'll find the whole. I'll post them Monday.