I haven’t been writing that much lately. And it’s largely due to the fact that I’m so fully immersed in life and plans and worries and even kind of enjoying myself right now – that when I do have a free moment at the computer, I feel like I have nothing to say.
And how is this possible? Oliver is starting Kindergarten next year and I’m looking down the barrel of a new IEP. AND I’ve done the unthinkable and taken responsibility for initiating sports activities for him. (This, from the girl who would willingly be the first one out in dodge ball just so she didn’t have to play.) Even if I didn’t think he’d spend the entire time rolling in dirt, it would be a bitter pill to swallow.
The emotional roller coaster involved in everything having to do with that little boy could give me a book’s worth of material – both funny and sad. Yet when I start to write about any of it, my head flops down in exhaustion at the idea of actually hitting keys and making this more real than it already is. I’m a realist by necessity but an escapist at heart.
So I don’t want to write about that. Nor do I have the desire to journal every funny story from my life at home with the kids. There are many – and I do sometimes share, but the truth is, I assume that it’s all been said before.
You know how when you start reading blogs, you die laughing over hilarious potty training stories and you send links to non-blogging friends beseeching them to drink the Kool Aid? Then after some time passes, you start to notice that you’re reading the same stories over and over – just from different people. Not that this makes you any less of a fan – in fact it makes you feel even more connected to people all going though the same things. But… When it comes time to write your own blog post, you start to feel rather unoriginal. Personally, don’t find that very motivating.
And I wonder if this is where people who once had so much passion for their writing start to feel a little lost. It’s a bit of a crossroads – a mid-life crisis. What next? Do I continue with my Little Engine that Could enthusiasm for stats? Or should I just write whenever I feel like it?
It’s a boring, dowdy phase, this blogging plateau. Mom jeans to the new-blogger mini skirt. Which is actually an apt metaphor for me since I went through years of preferring skirts and dresses to pants.
There was even a summer in my twenties when I wore nothing but short sundresses. Everyone in my beach house (Dewey Beach – holla!) seemed to have this preference as well, and a guy we knew began calling us The Sundress Brigade. And it sounds ridiculous really, but I kind of miss that. Being known for my feminine fashion choices. Being seen as someone who wears cute dresses and not practical workout clothes, you know – since I’ll be going to the Y later anyway. Someone who makes some effort with her hair in the morning – even if it’s just a low ponytail – instead of forgetting to brush it before leaving the house.
I miss not being a mom.
And that sounds terrible. Because I wouldn’t change anything about my life right now. Well – maybe some slip covers for threadbare couches that the children are slowly and systematically destroying…but nothing about being their mother.
It’s not an actual “crisis,” this thing paralleling my mid-blog life. Just nostalgia mixed with the ever present question of, “but then what?” The one many of us consider when we realize that in just a few years, they’ll be off doing their own thing, “and then who will I be?” Add one cup of sleep deprivation, a sprinkling of Target runs, and a heaping teaspoon of triple action eye cream…voila! You have a busy mom coming up for air. Breaking the surface to gasp for breath and notice a new beach looming on the horizon. Another one without any kids…but not much of anything else either. Just miles of sand where you can build any castle you want. But I’m not sure what I’d want that to be. And where’s the snack bar? Maybe I should bring a book…
So that may be part of this writing malaise. I’m rethinking who I am, who I want to be and how the hell I’m going to get there. Here is nice. But it’s temporary. And since looking forward always makes me want to climb into bed and pull the covers over my head (and Oliver’s head and Eleanor’s head and George’s head since they like nothing better than messing up my nicely made bed), I find myself looking back.
I’d like to feel that sun again. The sun of my youth that was a benevolent provider of tanned legs and the cure all for acne – not the harbinger of skin cancer and the spotlight for crows feet. I miss thinking I had a million things to worry over but easily forgetting them long enough to meet friends for cocktails.
The recent warm Spring weather inspired me to chop off my hair, which was sorely in need of a cut. I felt the need for less. And possibly for some incentive to pull out a brush every once in a while. The first time I had this style was the second summer of sundresses. I had rocked a shag and gone super long, but this flapper inspired bob was something entirely new. I pull it out now and again when I need a change and it never fails me. Just like a dress, it instantly grabs attention and makes me more aware of myself and of my identity as a girl. Not a young and cute girl now…but still that feminine, girly girl who likes to feel the swish of her skirt in the breeze.
My three year old daughter shows flashes of this to me – her future of dresses and tan legs and infinite time. She spins and laughs and reminds me of how it felt to only worry about myself. And to have minor concerns at that.
It will be at least ten years before she becomes the girl that I remember from my own youth. Right now, her preference for dresses is simply based on a love of twirling. She calls them her “ballerinas” and refuses to wear anything else. “Ballerinas don’t wear pants.“
As much as I’d love to join her in this conscientious objection to practicality, I really can’t wear a dress every day. Or even most days. My legs aren’t that great anymore. And I don’t have quite as much time for twirling.
But I will wear a ruffly top, put on some lip gloss and opt for a flirty haircut. This makes me no less of a mother, but it nods the girl that I will always be no matter what. And when I walk into Oliver’s IEP meeting, walk the aisles of Target and run in circles on the track at the Y, I’ll feel the swish of breeze in my hair and I’ll know that deep down I’m still the same girl.
I may have more responsibility and less freedom to stroll on beaches, but I can always find time to dance with my daughter. And remember.
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ELSEWHERE:
On Wishing True…
Mothers Day giveaway from Fifi Flowers!
Tiny lovelies from Handmade by Christine
Rosie Campbell belts
On Style Key West…
