You know your version of Word is old if it highlights the word “blog” as misspelled every time you write it. That’s SO last version.
Last night I was chatting away with friends at a party (actually it was Mii #3, the one in charge of social obligations) when one of my many friends names Emily (I haven’t actually counted them, but let’s just say there are enough Emily’s in my life to leave Saffron totally confused every time I introduce another of my friends as “Emily”) interrupted me and said, (I feel I should add another parenthetical reference here to keep up the rhythm even though I have nothing parenthetical to say) “This is so funny! I feel like I’m talking to your blog come to life!” What?? Weird. I thought my blog was supposed to remind people of me—but now I remind people of my blog?? As Saffron would say, “Whaddizzat?!” It’s like a B movie where I create my own clone, and then my clone destroys me. (Just a sec . . . I have to go write that down on my list of screenplay ideas).
Anywhichemily, this got me thinking: since one of my Emilys has now forgotten who is real, me or my blog, this begs a couple of questions:
1) when I get a wee bit more whelmed than is comfortable, bordering on over, and don’t blog for two weeks, what happens to the real me? Do I start to fade away, sort of like when Marty McFly fades out of his family photo in Back to the Future?
2) Since Steve, my husband, hasn’t read my blog FOR WEEKS (even though I purposely gave him the silent treatment over it in bed, until I realized he was giving me the snoring treatment back), who IS he married to? From whom is he getting his news about the family? He still doesn’t even know about Mission: Impossible “Ample Sample.” He just overhears bits and pieces, like ‘Wendys’ and ‘Poop.’*
*Steve’s name is not changed to protect the innocent, because he has given full license to be blogged about, and admits full responsibility for not reading. He has now pledged to be an actual “follower” of my blog—AWESOME. I’ve been languishing at nine followers forever and that will take me into double digits.
You know, maybe the reason Steve isn’t reading my blog, and is giving me the snoring treatment, is because I’ve been making him man bedtime so much lately. About three weeks ago, it was as if I suddenly stuck my head out of the window of an old VW bus on a month-long road trip with four brand new kids. We’d finally stopped fighting and I'd gotten them settled down to play the license plate game, and I remembered there was life outside my window. Well, it’s a good thing I did! We started December with a vengeance. I had, in this order, and I’m not kidding:
Sat: Steve and I were in charge of a Christmas party at our church
Mon: Family outing with my parents to see A Christmas Carol (you know, the movie with all the “moot” (dead) people where Willa learned the word “squirry.” (“scary”))
Tues: Annual Neighborhood Ladies Christmas Cookie exchange, byo homemade cookies
Wed: Christmas party for Saffron which required Moms to stay and chat
Thurs: Church Ladies' Christmas dinner
Fri: Annual amazing Tabernacle Choir Christmas concert
Sun: Family dinner
Tues: Tend neighbor’s kids for their Christmas work party
Wed: Ladies Watch party
Sat: Ladies Annual Christmas Appetizer Party
As you can see, we ladies in my neighborhood keep an active social calendar—in December, at least. And though I’ve vowed to give some things up, how can you give up outings that only come up once a year? Plus, Steve has been working a MULTITUDE of hours, including Saturdays, and so is rather eager to push me out the door and assuage his guilt.
Some days I’ve had to leave before he even drove up, and at least once we passed in the driveway, where I barked marching orders for the evening. I always say I’ll be home early, but then my blog gets chatting with people and keeps me out late. Actually, I think it’s turned out to be a really good thing. If Steve hadn’t had enough time to bond fully before, now he has. All four kids have put him through his paces with bedtime, and baths, and hair, and food, and squabbles, and he hasn’t complained once. I can tell he feels more comfortable than ever—he now feels ‘at home’ at home again. And that’s a wonderful thing.
In fact, today we shut the door for a nice Sunday nap and we were both saying (you know how you ‘both say’ in a marriage--I did a lot of saying, and Steve’s ‘Um hum’s’ were really sincere) that things are starting to feel really good. This is feeling like a comfortable and happy new normal. All in all, that seems pretty good for less than two months home as a family.
We still have our hard moments, and hard days where one of us or one of the kids is grieving the life we once knew. But it’s OK to grieve what you leave behind for such a major change. That doesn’t mean it’s not a good change. The kids seem genuinely happier, and more comfortable. They are no longer just abiding each other—they are beginning to love each other. And though I’m not too serious too often when I blog, I hope it comes through that I really love my children. We really love our children. Desperately. And we have no regrets. On the contrary—we feel extremely lucky. Right, Steve?
This blog is brought to you by the number 12, and the letters B and H.
12, as in how old I feel every time my dad surprises me by telling me he’s been reading my blog.
B, as in spelling bee, which Steve should enter. He flawlessly spells words for me as I blog, and the only disagreement we’ve had is when he switched my ‘onry’ to ‘ornery’ without asking me. I’m on a mission to erase that ‘ornery’ from common usage because I HATE it when people actually pronounce the first ‘r’. See, if you would spend time with the real me and not just my blog, you would know that.
H as in hip, which my mom is having replaced tomorrow. Everything will go smoothly, Mom. It has to, because I’m actually really terrified at the thought of taking down all your Christmas decorations by myself. J I love you.