I used to have a blog.
Does anyone remember that? (It’s OK if you don’t. My mom does.) When I was in college, I majored in journalism and English and I wrote a lot of analytical papers and “news” stories, and I needed a creative outlet. So every week, I sat down and wrote about my life, because forever and always (amen), that’s how I’ve sorted through things. At first, I wrote about my new friends in college. Later, I wrote about how scary it was to graduate college, move to a new city, and try to find a full-time (writing) job (not for the faint of heart). In between, I wrote a lot about coffee and reading books. At the end, I wrote about meeting my husband. And then I stopped writing.
I mean, I still wrote. I wrote a music column and feature stories every month for the magazine I worked for. I wrote approximately 769 emails every single day. I used proper grammar while texting and so I count that, too. I wrote to-do lists and love notes and I tried to write witty Instagram captions; the blog fell to the wayside. I married my husband and I found that when I wrote, I wasn’t just writing about me anymore. Everything I wrote was about someone else too, and then another someone else joined the fold, and then it happened again, and now there’s four of us, plus the cats and the puppy that actually belongs to our neighbor but whom we claim as our own whenever we’re in the backyard. Here’s the best family photo we’ve got:
Maybe one day your pictures will be as good as mine.
Anyway, a few months ago, we moved to a new city and I quit my full-time writing job. And as much as I love discovering who I am as a mama (on any given day, both the best mama ever and the meanest mom in the world, depending on how much Daniel Tiger I’m letting happen in my house), I miss the writing. I mean, I still do a fair amount of list-making, but it doesn’t quite scratch the creative itch like good, old-fashioned blogging, and a girl can only make so many Facebook statuses. After all, writing is how I’ve always sorted through things.
I have worried about whether my husband and kids will one day wish I hadn’t started the old blog back up. Emerson, for example, might one day prefer the Internet didn’t know that he brought in Aug. 30 with what had to be the biggest blowout any baby has ever blown. He was smiling when I went to get him from his bassinet, too. Nobody has ever been that poopy and that happy about it (that there’s a lesson in embracing your circumstances, people.)
But one day, should the Lord hear my prayers, Emerson and Gabby will 1. freaking go to sleep and 2. have their own passions, ones that make the world a different, brighter, more interesting place. What I hope I teach them is that no matter what they are, they ought to open up their hands and give them away.
So friends, here we go again. As always, thanks for reading.
(P.S. Go easy on me. I’m a bit rusty.)