I haven't been writing as often as I'd like in my youngest daughter's diary. But, yesterday, she inspired me, and as soon as she got out of the car for her flute lesson I opened her diary, began writing, and didn't stop until she returned a half hour later.
Earlier in the afternoon, I met her bus, picked up the one-ton backpack she dropped in the driveway, walked her into the house where she told me a secret. A secret about a boy.
Turns out this secret, which I had to tell the diary, prompted a long entry about a trip to the bookstore the day before where I splurged on an American Girl hair styling set that came with a brush and hair ties and instructions for hair styles, and the reason I splurged was because I know there's just a little window, this fragment of childhood left , where she'll want to style the hairdo's of this vast collection of dolls inherited from other girls who've outgrown them.
I wrote about how I let her stay up past per bedtime styling hair, and miss the bus the next morning, styling hair, and how I really didn't care because there are so many dolls, so many hair styles, so little time. . .