Where’d I Go?

June 19, 2017

It’s been years since I posted.  Literally.  I was never very good at posting to begin with.  Managing a social media profile is more than a skill.  It’s a talent.  There are some people who have it, and then there’s me.

It’s not that I don’t like writing.  I write nearly every day, but I usually prefer writing about the imaginary people I’ve created in my head than about myself.  See, I just don’t have that much to write about.  I rarely have life-altering realizations.  I don’t have the ability to paint crazy cool designs on my fingernails, I’m not fussed enough to dye my hair unicorn colors, and I almost never have good advice.  In fact, if I ever give you advice, probably don’t take it.  Every good thing that’s ever happened to me has happened pretty much on accident after I made about a million terrible choices—as if the universe saw what a mess I was making of my life and decided to throw me a bone.

But, seeing as how I started this blog and you all took the time to sign up for it, you deserve to know what I’ve been up to.  The long and short of it is I had a baby.  And nearly three years of my life just flew out the window.  

I suspect there are more than a few new moms out there, stealing five minutes for themselves to read this post, who are glancing up at the title and wondering where they went, too.  It just happens when you have a baby.  You check out of the “You” motel, with it’s crisp sheets and whenever wake up time, and willingly subjugate yourself to something like the army, but way harder.  Drill sergeants have nothing on colicky babies when it comes to yelling.

Then they stop being babies and turn into toddlers, and you really can’t take your eyes off them for a second or they’ll be chewing on electrical wires or licking the bottoms of their shoes.  You say the craziest things when you have a toddler—things you’d never think you’d have to say to another human being.  Like, Please don’t stick your finger in the cat’s butt.  He doesn’t like it.  Or, No, your diaper is not a nest.  Do not put scrambled eggs in there.

Toddlers.  The only thing that separates them from the clinically insane is age.

And then, suddenly, they become little girls.  They choose their own outfits and use the bathroom by themselves and they start saying please and thank you and I love you, mommy.  And your heart breaks into a million pieces.

There’s no checking back into the “You” motel.  Momming is a life-long gig, and I hear it gets way harder from here on out.  But there’s finally more time and there’s more room for me.  

So that’s where I’ve been.  And I’m back.  Hello again.

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