I've had this blog for over five years now. That's crazy. Cray-Z.
We have a love hate relationship, this blog and I. Every year or so I spend hours pondering its real purpose. Hours.
Sometimes I opt to be done with the whole thing for good. Write in a real journal. You know, something private. There are just so many things I want to say to just myself. There are so many times I think "but if so and so sees that ..."
I've tried private journaling a few times in the last five years, but it is easy to give up on. No one but me knows that I've dumped those journals. Giving up on this beauty isn't so easy. Our relationship is too complicated. For five years I've thought "that'd make a good blog post" or "I'd like writing about that, it'd give me the reflection I need" at least once a day.
Tonight, as I'm pondering which of the dozens of posts I might like to finish for publishing, or which of the dozens of ideas I might want to get a start on, I'm realizing that the reason this blog is so complicated is because I am complicated.
In five years this blog has seen me through depression recovery, a struggling career, East Coast exploration, deep longings for motherhood, cross country travels, success as an amazing English teacher, political addictions, and the bliss and distress of motherhood. The style and writing of my posts have changed because I have changed.
When I first started blogging it seemed like there were a million "keeping in touch with the family/journal blogs" out there. And now it seems like there are a bazillion "mommy" blogs out there.
I don't want to be a mommy blog.
But as I clicked on the tag "Around DC" and read through old happenings of Ben and I's honeymoon stage, I realize how grateful I am for those written memories. For both the reflections and the recount of events. Hearing the voice of who I was at that time is a sweet reminder of how fragile and strong life's emotions are.
So I'm going to mommy it up from here on out. One day, when I'm chasing teenagers around town, I'll want the tender memory of what it was like to hunt down bargains on diapers, to clean up after finger paint messes, and to pull my hair out in hopes that it will be more enjoyable than appeasing the whines and screams of little humans.
And, if in the end that writing style, that "voice" is poorly written, I'll just remind myself that I didn't have time to read any great works of literature during those years of diapering and drools. And most my conversations were with a babbler.
We have a love hate relationship, this blog and I. Every year or so I spend hours pondering its real purpose. Hours.
Sometimes I opt to be done with the whole thing for good. Write in a real journal. You know, something private. There are just so many things I want to say to just myself. There are so many times I think "but if so and so sees that ..."
I've tried private journaling a few times in the last five years, but it is easy to give up on. No one but me knows that I've dumped those journals. Giving up on this beauty isn't so easy. Our relationship is too complicated. For five years I've thought "that'd make a good blog post" or "I'd like writing about that, it'd give me the reflection I need" at least once a day.
Tonight, as I'm pondering which of the dozens of posts I might like to finish for publishing, or which of the dozens of ideas I might want to get a start on, I'm realizing that the reason this blog is so complicated is because I am complicated.
In five years this blog has seen me through depression recovery, a struggling career, East Coast exploration, deep longings for motherhood, cross country travels, success as an amazing English teacher, political addictions, and the bliss and distress of motherhood. The style and writing of my posts have changed because I have changed.
When I first started blogging it seemed like there were a million "keeping in touch with the family/journal blogs" out there. And now it seems like there are a bazillion "mommy" blogs out there.
I don't want to be a mommy blog.
But as I clicked on the tag "Around DC" and read through old happenings of Ben and I's honeymoon stage, I realize how grateful I am for those written memories. For both the reflections and the recount of events. Hearing the voice of who I was at that time is a sweet reminder of how fragile and strong life's emotions are.
So I'm going to mommy it up from here on out. One day, when I'm chasing teenagers around town, I'll want the tender memory of what it was like to hunt down bargains on diapers, to clean up after finger paint messes, and to pull my hair out in hopes that it will be more enjoyable than appeasing the whines and screams of little humans.
And, if in the end that writing style, that "voice" is poorly written, I'll just remind myself that I didn't have time to read any great works of literature during those years of diapering and drools. And most my conversations were with a babbler.
2 comments:
Yeah!! You're back. When will your first Mommy Blog Installment be published. I await with great anticipation.
Grandpa B
:)
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