My Third-Grade Diary (1993)

I’ve been keeping a journal for so long that it kind of freaks me out: for the most part, two-thirds of my life have been documented. I still have the journal that started it all: a black-and-white speckled composition book that my mom covered in panda-themed fabric (in honor of Ling Ling, my beloved stuffed panda who still travels from living situation to living situation with me).

The first entry kicks off on New Year’s Day when I was nine and in third grade. This historical entry is devoted to cataloging the contents of my teenage cousin’s bedroom. (Written on the wall: “Tracy loves Buddy 4-life, I love Kenny, Katy loves Sam.” Under the bed: “Shoes, Easter bunny container, a silk bra.”) I need to send her this list and get the statuses on Buddy, et al. A true “HappiMess: Where Are They Now?” post.

Like many gals, I got very conversational with my journal. “Hey babess!” begins one entry. (…”Babess”? What do I mean?) In one entry, I marvel, “Gosh, you’re like a best friend! (One that keeps secrets, that is.)” Many entries conclude with politeness: “Thanks for listening! Bye.”

As the record shows, I was frequently dealing with drama: “Sheila is being a reterared. She busts in my business between me and Tracy’s madness. I still hate Lori, I mean, Miss Awesome-I’m-so-cool. She probably writes it on her papers at school.” I often framed these highs and lows of friendships in terms of rankings and races and scoring: “Ashley is on the track again. Santina always had a perfecto score. She might come in the lead!!!!!! ‘Lizzy? Yes, this is the Steph-Steph airport. Great news! You’re coming in second place!!!!!!’” Who talks like this??

This journal also notes the arrival of Tetra into my life, as made evident using an unstructured fact sheet:

THE NEW GIRL
(Honey Bear guffawed at this dramatic title: “You haven’t changed.”)
Moved: Up by my grandma’s house
Looks: Brown eyes, brown hair, short, cool.
Grade: 2eond Grade
Age: 7 years old
Like: Nice, always fight with Freckle, wild!!!

I attempted to organize multiple clubs, such as the Sleepover Club. However, there were struggles: “The Rainbow Club stopped cause they missed lots of meetings and only 5 members joined.” My obsession with clubs surely had something to do with the Baby-sitters Club books, which I was all about during this time, to the point where clearly the most important event going on in my life and what I considered to be crucial information to record for all posterity was how many BSC books were in my possession. On July 27, 1993, I had 14, which was at one point crossed out and replaced with 17. Apparently, this significant three-book increase did not warrant its own entry.

The BSC hilariously plays a part in the most bloody-rage-filled entry, which was written after my family took me to get ice cream and I saw a flier for some teenage girls’ real-life babysitters club. Panic at being left out of this idea that I believed was my destiny, this feelings explosion resulted: “Ohhhh, I’m in a rotten mood!… Brace yourself, these girls started a…I don’t know how to say this…a baby-sitters club! Oh, how mad I am!! I hate those girls! I octillion hates them!” Tempering this fury was the fact I still took the trouble to dot all my i’s with hearts. BTW: “I octillion hates them!” is now back in my vocabulary and I’m sorry it ever left.

The diary wasn’t all sunshine and Rainbow Clubs. One post was particularly disconcerting: “Dear Diary, Today I [organized] a diet plan. My family always teases me about my butt and my tummy. I’m really going to try hard. I want to be slim, well-built, beautiful, and sexy like Cindy Crawford, Linda Evangelista, Paulina Porizkova, Claudia Schiffer, Christy Turlington, Naomi Campbell, and Christy Brinkley.” (My younger self was clearly sitting in front of a list of supermodels, as I can’t even spell “Porizkova” on my own as an adult.) I’m pretty positive this diet plan did not last beyond the day, but still: There is no reason for any nine- or ten-year-old girl to be designing diet plans for herself.

The darkest entry in the journal speaks to the day my grandmother died of colon cancer: “Guess what. Today something very sad happened. My grandma Trudy died. I’ll really miss her. I just knew she was gonna die this year. And she did. When I heard my mom cry, I felt numb all over. Now that I’m writing this down, I feel empty inside. Friends, family, and teachers fill and leave holes. Grandma Trudy did the same. She filled and left a hole. I hope you know what I’m talking about.” Even Honey Bear was a little surprised by the tone. My angst was pure and true amid all that babbling about holes, and then a beat later comes pure exuberance: “Okay, now I’m at my grandma Rose’s house! Yah-hoo!”

At the end of the journal is a Scrapbook section, where I posted birthday cards and, for reasons unclear, the Denny’s kids menu. “Wait, I want to read the Denny’s kids menu!” Honey Bear said, and he looked so cute, sitting on the footstool, reading from a panda-print notebook about one-half waffles for $1.89. Alongside the menu was a wry note I’d written after the fact: “Here’s the kids menu from Denny’s ’95. Who knows why I saved it.” This made HB laugh: “Did you go back in at a later date and annotate these entries?!” When I admitted yes, he reiterated, “You really haven’t changed.”

Thanks for listening! Bye!

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