It’s never my intention to fall off the face of the earth. Of course it’s not.
I reach these plateaus and I think to myself, “What could I say that I haven’t said 1000 times? Why would anyone want to read any of that anyway?”
I can blow up Twitter with mindless drivel, but somehow a real post – something of substance – I avoid it. It’s not something I’m proud of or even sure I understand.
Things here are good. I stay home with Lucy still – for now anyway – and we spend our days singing and dancing and learning tricks (she can totally tell you she’s one, by the way).
So here I am, boring as ever. I get these bursts of creativity sometimes and I just know that I can sit down and crank out chapter upon chapter of an enthralling tale, but the blankness intimidates me. I end up with a few sentences or nothing at all.
Lots of times these days I think about the original housewives. You know, June Cleaver and that chick on Happy Days and Kitty Forman. How they were clean and happy and always coiffed and you know just by looking at them that they smelled like Ivory soap and flowers. I am not that housewife. Most days I end the day with the baby still in her pjs and a pile of laundry that won’t be folded until someone forces the kids to do it.
A sitcom would not portray me kindly, I fear.
BUT – in spending the past year at home, I have gotten to know myself. Maybe I haven’t spent the time as wisely as I could’ve, but maybe I have. I know this baby’s quirks and weirdnesses like I never knew the other two. I’m here when the kids get off the bus and I know who usually wins the race to the house (Ava, but I suspect she cheats). That’s got to count for something.
Anyway, I’m here. I plan to post more often, in the name of mustering creative energy.
Until next time.