I have been hard at work on my archiving project: 35 years of Steve Dahl and Company, personal edition. I have unearthed boxes of pictures, baby books, tubs of prints, report cards, diplomas, baby wristbands and hats- everything imaginable....except for Matt's high school graduation picture for his School Years folder. I know I bought them, since I framed one- but I need the other prints to complete his baby book and to put a photo in the Grade 12 slot.
The absence of this picture is an aberration, since I save everything. That is why I am doomed to drive myself nuts doing this. I have trotted down memory lanes that I did not remember. I now have all the photographs arranged chronologically in shoe boxes. I also have one shoe box for each boy. I curse double prints, but I really curse the lack of embedded dating on the backs. I a using forensic science like baby teeth vs. oversized teeth, neon vs. prep, permed Mom vs. flat hair. In other words, the order is a little hap hazard.
I bought two rolling shelving units that will be repurposed in the garage, and I have all my boxes installed upon them. I need to work in the kitchen, for the light and counter space to spread things out. Every day, I roll in the boxes and work. I have gone through twenty thousand pictures, and to tell you the truth, I am almost getting sick of my family. Just kidding. But I have thrown out thousands of pictures. It kills me. But I over-captured. Memories will just have to hold the boys over.
Album making will start this weekend. Each boy has a Senior Year box I am editing, and an assortment of salvaged treasures. Today I came across and X-ray of a hand. I had to call Mike to remind me when he was injured (16 inch softball). The devil is in the details.
At any rate, I will not bore you with this tedious affair. My butt is 2 inches wider than when I started, and my eyes are .5 diopters worse off.
I did find this adorable note from Mike, circa 2nd-3rd grade. I like to think he was starting his persuasive writing unit. It made my day. It also reminded me why I love being a mother.
Mike did not get the knife. He never learned to widdle. But he was always persuasive, polite and loving. Still is.