A few years ago, I bought each of my kids a domain in their name.
As we get closer and closer to Wall-E times, I assume calling dibs on a url is a smart move. In fact, each year, as I click renew, I scream out YOU’RE WELCOME to a trio of confused toddler faces who have no idea how thankful they should be to me right now.
You’re welcome kids, I’m the reason you aren’t going to be www.JoodGibbonz45.wu.
I mean, it’s the least I can do, I’ve never been a great scrapbooker, or getter of things off memory cards, but they’re getting older, and I really want to make a point to keep memories for them down the road.
Which is when I got the idea to open email accounts.
So fine, most of their photos happen to be taken with my iPhone, that doesn’t mean I can’t preserve the moment for them to look back on to cringe or tell me they hate me for.
I opened each of the kids a gmail account (there is an age requirement, so I had to use my own birth year), and shared the addresses with family members, so whenever the mood or moment strikes, we can fire off an email to Jude, Wyatt or Gigi.
A funny story, a silly cell phone picture, a million I love you’s, it doesn’t matter, one day I’ll give them the password to read all the memories the account holds.
And yeah, there are virtual scrapbooks and memory sites and crap, but it doesn’t get any simpler than sitting next to the soccer field, taking a picture, and clicking send.
This is their scrapbook. It’s not frilly, or shiny or glittery, but it’s the best reflection of our lives right now; digital, in transient, fast, fun as hell.