I began writing a journal at 11 years old. I know this because I have proof. Not only is my handwriting adorable, I am charmed that I wanted to have a conversation with my “old” mom self to remind me of what it was like to be 11 years old, 50 years ago today.

I also find it adorable that my very next thought was about my future husband – who is was and where he lived. Little did I know that in a few months, he would be moving from Hawaii to live in my same town and see me at church at the drinking fountain. This 11-year-old boy would know in that moment that I would someday be his wife. So he more than wondered about his future wife. He knew it would be me.

These looseleaf notebook papers are quite precious to me now but since they are written in pencil and deteriorating, I thought I’d pull out quotes to preserve them and report back to my 11-year-old self. I had some pretty strong opinions and told myself a thing or two about what I should do as a mom! Not all my ideas were practical but I admire how determined I was.

So here goes. I’ll insert quotes and then have a conversation with myself 50 years ago.

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The Pre-Teen Swimming Suit Angst

It’s spring vacation this week and we’re going to the coast. We shopped around for a swimming suit today because the one we ordered I didn’t like. Mom and dad did, of course, they like anything that’s dumb sometimes. It had tank top shoulder straps and was one piece and looked stupid. This is what mom and dad always do in a case like this. It’s two more days until time to leave and mom says, “You will just have to wear the one we ordered because we don’t have enough time to shop for one. I’ve been looking for swimming suits for months and haven’t found one and I doubt you will find one today” (Dad was going downtown and I wanted to go with him to look). So I finally got to go with him and we looked at all the good stores that had swimming suits (three) except one of them which was Fred Meyer. But before we got there, we (dad and I) sat down in the car and he says, “Mom has looked at Fred Meyer lots of times and there wasn’t any there so we think the one you have now is good material, will last a long time, looks modest, and makes you look older. The two choices you have is to wear the one you have or don’t go swimming.” Now here comes the good part. Dad says, “Mom would have a bad trip if I didn’t go swimming” and knowing mom and dad, I’d get into lots of trouble if I don’t go swimming since they paid for the nice hotel. He says I have two choices when I really have one. That’s to wear that retarded swimming suit. But dad said if it would make me feel better, we could go to Fred Meyer. I found a cute swimming suit. I don’t want to be like that when I grow up.

First, can I just say “kudos” to my dad for taking me downtown to shop after my mom had exhausted her resources. He had better things to do than drive around an angsty, grumpy, pre-teen in a small town with very limited retail options. I am embarrassed at how harsh I was on my parents and opinionated I was on nearly every topic. It’s true, dad really only gave me one viable choice with a guilt trip served on the side, but I can’t think of much I’d do differently with such limited options and short deadline. It must have been exhausting to raise finicky me. The fact is, dad did take me to that last store and we did find an acceptable swimming suit and he did buy it for his very undeserving daughter. He kept his patience in this frustrating situation. He could have turned around and gone home with me sulking in the backseat.

So to 11-year-old me: I’m sorry. I was probably “that” parent too. I sure hope so. To my dad: I’m even sorrier. You gave me more than I deserved.

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Food, Glorious, Food

I always say things like when I grow up, I’ll have better lunches than we have now. When I wake up and try to find a civilized breakfast, nothing is there. Mom always says, “I’ll love to come and visit you when you have a family because you’ll be living like rich people, but I hope you marry for love.” Really, I do want to change a lot of things when I grow up. I’ll write as much as I can think of. When I grow up, I can see how much it compares.
To start out, FOOD…definitely better breakfasts. I hardly have any now. Bacon, eggs, sausages. And for cold cereal (I don’t know if these will be on the market when I’m older): Trix, Fruit Loops, anything with sweet things in it. Mom always says she doesn’t buy cereal like that because it isn’t good for us and costs too much. But I hope I have enough money from what my husband earns to buy things like that. At least I want breakfasts with bacon, eggs, toast, sausages, oranges and pancakes, juice, WHOLE milk, no powdered milk. I despise powdered milk. I also love frozen grape juice but mom says that costs too much too. I want these things too: Pop-Tarts (in case they don’t have them in the future they are sorta triangular things with icing on top with blueberry, cherry, or strawberry filling). And anything from Hostess. Good things like that.

I can hardly type this out without falling down laughing. Where do I begin with a reasonable reply to my 11-year-old self? How wise my mom was to respond to my irascible temperament with a smile and even response of “I look forward to coming to your house when you are a mom.” She knew how volatile were my opinions and it wasn’t worth engaging in an argument. She took the higher road. And to be fair: I have no idea what I was talking about having no “civilized” food in the house for breakfast. I make it sound like we were raised by wolves. Let me assure you, we were not. What a Drama Queen I was!

Now did I do what I felt so passionately about when I became a mom? How does it compare?

Well, I did buy cold cereal, but my own children can attest that it rarely involved the sugary kind. Sorry, no Trix or Fruit Loops on the regular shopping list. We sometimes had pancakes, eggs, sausage, and juice, but those are Saturday or Sunday morning special times. We didn’t have whole milk but we didn’t have powdered milk, either. Somewhere in between. I rarely bought anything from Hostess and can count on one hand the number of times I bought Pop-Tarts (yes, we still have those villainously diabetes-inducing things 50 years later). Pretty much I’m on par with my mom. And proud of it. In fact, just a few years ago, I wrote this poem:

In Praise of the Pop Tart

I remember cursing my mother

for serving oatmeal and stale toast

for breakfast. A small tsunami

in the blender of powdered milk

to wash it down.

When I’m a mom, I’ll buy Pop Tarts

to show my kids how much I love them.

Breakfast wrapped silver cellophane

just like the Jetsons on TV.

Two rectangles to a bag, a bonus of indulgence.

Icing on top. Jam inside. Oh, you were

rosy cheeked and freshly painted

with sprinkles masquerading as nutrition.

It’s not like the toaster didn’t know

how to open its sweet tooth

and heat my desires. I’ll fit in, then.

One for now, one for lunch so

friends will drip with envy.  How much

I still want that—the fake, the bangled

evidence of belonging.  A little heat

in my hand. The red crisp lips

curled in a knowing smile.

Yes, I could indulge my secret belief in you. 

So it goes from mother to child,

our blood thickened with

tinseled desires packaged for resale.

I could tell you this, today, as I stir

lumps out of oatmeal on the stove,

if you wish to unwrap happiness

before school, but it would

crumble like false friends,

turn to ash in your mouth.

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For Love or Money?

I wish I will marry someone rich so I don’t have to worry about my problems. But like whenever I get into a discussion with mom about what I want when I grow up, she always ends up saying a lecture about “marry for love and not for money.” I WILL mom, unless I’m really crazy when I’m older. Marriage is the most important thing in my life. It decides what I will be doing for the rest of my life. It decides how I will raise my kids, how my house will be like, who I will be spending the rest of my life with. It will decide a lot of things. I want to get a great big house with big rooms and lots of rich furniture in it. But there is one problem: I HATE to clean. Another thing I have to figure out is that I don’t want to spoil my children and give them neat stuff but want them to be grateful, kind, sweet little angels.

To myself 50 years ago: I found the right balance and made the best decisions. I don’t own a big house with big rooms and lots of rich furniture. It’s easier to clean and I don’t stress about keeping up with all the nicest, most expensive designs. I can assure my 11-year-old self that I wasn’t crazy when I became older. I didn’t spoil my children and they are the most kind, sweet little angels. Most importantly, I did marry for love. He’s the love of my life. I am the richest woman in the world.