I often miss blogging though I can’t always say why. I think I miss the community we create when we blog, even if we don’t always comment. I miss the (theoretical) processing that happens when I sit to write about something difficult. (Theoretical because I’ve struggled to sink into the writing flow since being on meds.)
I’m not ever sure what to blog about anymore, though. I don’t write in essay form anymore. I don’t have demons to purge or conquer. I live a pretty boring life now – one I’m thankful for, for sure – without much fodder for interesting writing. But, I’m going to blog more often about whatever’s in my head. Consider yourselves warned.
I am finally ready to declare that sewing is my hobby. I have hesitated to do so because I don’t find the process of sewing enjoyable, don’t tend to sew technical things, and am in it for the outcome. Ever since my husband insisted I acknowledge it was “my thing” when we bought me a new sewing machine for my birthday, though, I’ve been coming to terms with the truth. My hesitation is strange, probably rooted in the awkwardness of realizing you are becoming your mother. I love my mom and thinks she kicks ass, but sometimes I catch a glimpse of my messy hair and tired eyes and am struck by how much I look like I remember her looking when she was my age. (Don’t tell her. That wouldn’t make her happy, that I notice our resemblance most when tired and unkempt.) ‘Tis what it is, I suppose.
I went mountain biking ONCE and seem to have torn my ACL. It’s a partial tear, we assume, since I ignored it for six weeks before seeking medical attention, but a consistently painful one. I’m on anti-inflammatories that mean I must abstain most of the week and am supposed to wear a brace that makes my knee feel bruised. Part of me wants to push for surgery (if I need it) so that we can get it done this year since we’ve hit our deductible. The smarter part of me prefers denial and not spending the holiday season hobbled. It’s not like I’m athletic and need to use it, after all….
Reading books about parenting are a total mind fuck. There, I said it. While I relied on them while my son was an infant, these days there are fewer of the kinds of developmental things that make you wonder if your kid has been possessed, so I hadn’t flipped through one in a while. Looking through Wonder Weeks on my Kindle last week, I felt that old familiar panicky “Oh, my gawd, I’m failing my kid by not doing X, Y and Z” feeling so I shut it. It’s still haunting me, though. Should I go back to speaking Spanish to him? Will he ever use real words? Is he behind, developmentally, since he’ll only say Xbox and kitty and Frank and E (yes, the letter) but not mama or daddy or no? Should we be reading more books? Doing more projects? Taking more walks? AAAAAAH. My parenting style is to just watch him work things out on his own (a total surprise to me that I’m this way, by the way) so he tends to do more than talk. Should I try to be different? (Answer: no, since I will fail at it, anyway. Being genuine will work better long-term than not.) Argh. Mind fuck.
Work. So much to process there, but I haven’t figured out how to lock down my posts so that they’re not public, so maybe I’ll figure that out this weekend and then I can unload the mess going through my head.
I’m so sick of our ugly kitchen. That is all.
Happy November 1st!