Is there a reader out there who does not have a To Do list? Surely everyone has one, either written or mental. So tell me, why does this list seem to grow longer every year?

The years are certainly not getting longer. It’s just the projects and chores that seem to escalate. As soon as I enjoy the heady rush of satisfaction in having completed something, crossed through it with a large “DONE” in bold strokes, up pops another TO DO.

My list haunts me waking and sleeping; it is always there, at the back of my conscience.

Not today. Today is a Red Letter Day as far as my list is concerned. Not only have I eliminated one major project, I have crossed through five. Correct: five TO DOs wiped off my page. It has about killed me…and filled me with nostalgia, heartache, pride and maternal joy.

I have just completed scrapbooks for each of my five grown children. (Each lives out of town so I am hoping that not one of them sees this column and spoils their big Christmas surprise.) Many of my friends tell me they did this when their child reached his or her fortieth birthday.

Or when the offspring married and left home. I’m tardy in even thinking “scrapbooking” though I admit the word appeared on that dreaded list nearly three years ago. After weeks of intense sorting, filing, sifting, copying multiple documents and photographs I finally heave a giant sigh of relief and satisfaction.

This was a long process as many of you craft-wise veterans will attest. Buying the correct scrapbooks was the first hurdle. I readily admit to being a novice at the art of scrapbooking and felt as out of place as a rose in Antarctica in the aisles of the craft shop.

Everyone else seemed to know exactly where to locate Lucite page covers, the correct glue, a certain type of SLAB paper and the necessary but oh-so-expensive do-dads that decorate pages. I came home on this first shopping foray with two enormous bags of supplies.

The next day I returned to the same store to exchange everything. I had purchased the correct covers but the wrong pages. On this trip I flagged down a knowledgeable and sympathetic clerk who guided me to perfect scrapbooking techniques and necessary supplies.

Not that my five books are perfect. Hardly that. But they contain more about each of my children than I think even they will want to know. It appears I was a real saver. From immunization records to pre-kindergarten reports to college grades: I tucked everything away in a file.

And the letters! If I tallied up the hours spent completing this project I think I spent more time reading and remembering and giggling than gluing and taping.

I had not reviewed each child’s file for years so I delved into them one by one, seeing with fresh eyes the young adult my babies have become. The thunderbolt struck me as I neared completion of this Herculean project. That is, the ambition and accomplishment I now see in my adult offspring was sprouting there as a healthy kernel in those precious early years.

My dominant child is still dominant. The Eagle Scouts exemplify the ideals and ethics they espoused many years ago. The writers in the family put me to shame.

One child wrote reams of poetry, including limericks. Another has a short story, written at age 8, that should be published today. The artwork was overwhelming. Pictures and letters and certificates have gone into separate and accompanying archival boxes. The scrapbooks that I purchased are large and commodious but at some point there had to be a limit.

The books also hold copies of the family trees of both parents, something I wish I’d had many years ago. The children’s father, deceased for nearly thirty years as I write this, is remembered in each of the books with press clippings, pictures, speeches and letters to his family. I know they, like their mother, will wipe a tear or two as they look through those pages.

As I view this Mount Rushmore of accomplishment and once more sigh with contentment, I feel a tiny wave of sadness creeping into my psyche. Perhaps it is the pleasurable realization that my five are really gone from the nest and for this last brief moment I’ve had them wholly to myself.
Ah, the joys of parenthood: holding on…and letting go.

Barbara Dickinson is an author and freelance writer in the Roanoke Valley.

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