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A small kelly green hardbound book with a gold embossed border and square locking mechanism.
Even then, in the dire days of second grade, I failed to fill in the daily pages.
Perhaps the slot at the top of each page to fill in the date was where my ongoing cycle of expectation/failure/guilt got its perfectionist start. If only there were simply blank pages with no open forward slashes for month/day/year, maybe then I would’ve been free to record my thoughts as I wished, order them as needed.
But it was only this summer that it took me two entire days to write one entry in my journal. Now the pages were wide open, but my days were not. The stream of thoughts were interrupted when sports practice actually ended on time one evening and completed in fits and starts when swim lessons turned into extended splashing in the shallows. As parents beckoned with outstretched towels, I began to stir from my chair. But my little leapfrog still happily skidded her hands across the surface of the water even as her classmates began to leave. And her older sisters were likely still snoozing. So why not let her play a while longer and finish my thoughts?
Staying seated in that chair strained every productive perfect bone in my body.
Will another mom see me with my head down and judge me as putting my child in danger? (I looked up every few words and rose from time to time to make eye contact with her) Should I go home and check on her sisters? (I’d texted and only one had risen and started to think about breakfast) What laundry/dishes/errands need to be completed next? (The list was never-ending and would still be there when I got home)
Why did letting my child extend her playtime in the outdoors feel like a bad choice?
Because, in this instance, it meant that I got to fill the lines on my pages and my cup. Because in a daily schedule/vocation/lifestyle (ie motherhood) that society orders as self-less, it seems self-ish to take a few minutes for oneself. On a perpetual treadmill, it seems wasteful to sit and stare into space.
But just as it did my daughter well to soak up some sunshine and wonder in the lapping water, it did me well to off-load some thoughts and feelings onto the page, synthesize others, and start with a clean slate.
In that instant I couldn’t change the tempo of my life, I couldn’t create time, but I chose to step out it. I chose to do something that would allow a refreshed me to step back in.
And we all have that choice.
Whether we draw, doodle, sketch; list, pen lengthy diatribes, or long poems; write letters to someone with whom we’re angry, our younger or future self; discover truths buried deep in our hearts or a simply profound recognition – journalling is whatever we make of it and accessible to us all.
All it takes is a piece of paper, something to write with, and a willingness to be open.

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Any Girl Scout leader will tell you a troop is born of one girl’s total insistence – and that girl is usually her daughter.
That’s how they get you – the girl and the Scouts; they know you are wholly dedicated to her growth and will do anything, including hundreds of volunteer hours, to facilitate that.
So how did that commitment ten years ago land me in the same church hall last night leading a workshop for mothers?
That, too, is all about growth.
When I trained to be a troop leader, I did not know with whom I’d be working. Ironically enough, there was an existing troop at my daughter’s elementary school so both my daughters joined. Fresh-faced and grateful for all the two co-leaders were doing, I eagerly attended each meeting, offering whatever help they needed. I knew these two moms, their oldest girls in the same classes as mine, but not closely. As the girls bonded over ‘Simple Meals’ and ‘First Aid’ badges, I got to know and enjoy crazy times with these women. Overnights and hikes, crafts and camping. When I went to Troop Camping Training with one of them, we found a whole crew of women dedicated to the cause and having a whole lot of fun doing it.
The circle of women I got to know only grew as my girls progressed through the levels. My younger daughter started as a Daisy and a new crop of girls and moms came in. Leader meetings gave us a chance to ease the commitment we’d taken on by sharing ideas and resources and they almost served as a troop meeting for the women themselves. Very often, the speaker had to deal with unruly ‘kids’ just as a leader did. The leaders of the ‘mega troop’ of many levels all three of my girls eventually joined even went on a scavenger hunt scouring three towns.
It all started with a desire to empower our girls. But I wonder what other motivations kept us dedicated. Was it the thrill of recapturing a lost girlhood? Carefree and fun and sequestered? Or did it speak to a longing that grown women, especially mothers, don’t often find fulfilled? Companionship, camaraderie? And was it also a safe way to seek this out, without guilt, within an activity that also served our children?
Even though I took on a troop when my fourth was a newborn, I eventually ‘retired’ from leadership. I remained a registered member and assisted with my youngest’s troop, but I was too tired to lead. Still, there are times I miss the sisterhood of women bonded by the girls they serve.
Now that newborn is old enough to insist I bring her to Girl Scouts. I did. Our service unit hosted a ‘Learn about Girl Scouts’ series for parents and girls. Over the course of three meetings, girls experienced troop-like activities while parents learned all the stuff I already knew. My former service-unit manager outed me to the Council member running it, saying ‘she’d be a good leader’ with an elbow to my side. I admitted I was a ‘recovering leader’. But as she explained to parents how leading her troop for thirteen years gave her her own set of friendships with women as they nurtured the girls, I was wistful.
I think it’s safe to say that most adults yearn for the simpler days of their childhood. Not the growing up all over again, but the chance to do things just for the fun of it. To play with friends. To not have to be the one in charge. To feed our soul with things that feel good and light us up – not alienate us and drag us down.
As I packed my things last night in preparation for the workshop, it didn’t escape me that it was same as setting things down into the tote bag I used to haul Scout supplies. I loaded the trunk and drove the same route. I parked by the ramp and unlocked the door with the same key I borrowed for meetings. As I set up in the rosy glow of sunset slanting through the blinds, the quiet excitement with which I laid items out on tables, shifted chairs into place, had the same feel as preparing for a troop meeting all that time ago. It was oddly satisfying and soothing to be preparing for this new type of meeting in that same place. It was like coming home.
But this time, it was for the moms.
A meeting to discuss putting ourselves on the schedule. Where our motherhood ends and our self begins. Or the jumbled up place in the middle where they intertwine. About taking care of others and ourselves.
I’m not saying my meeting was Girl Scouts for Adults, but it was a chance to sit uninterrupted and think about what we, as women, as individuals, want from our lives. With like-minded people experiencing the same things, facing the same struggles.
Because no one wants to be lost in the shuffle – girl or woman.
