I don’t know, but I feel like I am, even though I seem to be trapped these days in an endless game of Whack-A-Mole around here.
This isn’t a post about our ongoing kitchen-basement-structural damage nightmare, even though we’ve been without a kitchen since January 31, with no end in sight. Even though I promised a juicy tale entitled The Real Housewives Of Brookeville Take On Pulte Homes. Oh yes we might, but I can’t stomach writing about it.
No, it’s not about crawling into bed with Boy at 3am, a few hours before his annual IEP meeting, soaking up his energy, his heart, reflecting on his progress, his strengths, his challenges, so I might be the advocate he needs and deserves.
Nope, it’s not about my job – I like it – or how much I miss my alone time during the school day – I SO do – or the best teacher appreciation gift ever, a comic created by Boy:
It’s not the postscript to my Cheese In A Can blog post, the one Boy’s comic reminded of, the one – among many – I can’t seem to finish, because I can’t seem to find the time or the focus or the energy. Just in case I never finish it, I will tell you Boy’s teacher let him line up his classmates to spray shots of Cheez Whiz directly into their mouths. Oh yes she did, because she’s awesome.
No, this isn’t a post about the nutcase shooter on the loose near Boy’s school this past Friday, or about all of the county schools locking down because of it. It’s not about the horrific memories of 9/11, the DC sniper, or Sandy Hook it evoked. It isn’t about trying to stay present at work while that was happening – I didn’t, I completely checked out. It isn’t even about counting down the minutes until I could leave work, waiting for Boy on the front steps, sitting with him on the couch, helping him swing his legs around onto my lap, peeling off his sweaty socks, rubbing his feet, listening to him tell me he knew there was a shooting, even though his teacher wouldn’t tell him what was happening, hearing him say he was afraid, asking me if anyone died.
It isn’t about how incredibly proud I am of Girl for standing up against dishonesty and injustice at her college this week.
I don’t know what it’s about.
Maybe it’s about the long list of crap I have to do before tomorrow, grocery shopping, laundry, prepping the van for Husband’s trip up to Boston to collect Girl from school. You’d never know I have such a list, though, because I’m just sitting here in my little library, writing this on my iPhone – AS IF I’ll actually finish a blog post and publish it – and hoping that long list of crap will magically get done somehow. All I want to do today is watch the Fixer Upper marathon on HGTV.
Maybe it’s about how glad I am the sun is finally shining or that we just got home from a enjoying a yummy Mother’s Day lunch at a local farm to table place or that Boy is running with his buddies in the neighborhood, not a care in the world.
Maybe it’s about the rumored second US leg of Springsteen’s tour. All signs point to late summer, early fall. Ha. Don’t have a cow, Husband. Or Boss Lady.
Maybe it’s about remembering my grandmother, my mother, becoming a mother myself. Maybe it’s about my very first blog post, the one inspired by the Mother’s Day gift given to me by Girl two years ago, the one that inspired me to finally start this blog in the first place.
Maybe it’s about time. There’s a time for everything. AND time is limited. Maybe it’s about making time for some things and saying no to others. Figuring out when to forge ahead, when to wait. Knowing when to hold on, when to let go.
Maybe it’s ok that this is what I often receive from Girl these days. I’m not entirely sure if it’s ok that this is what I give back, but it makes me laugh my ass off. If that’s wrong, I don’t want to be right:
Maybe it’s ok that I don’t have time to write as much as I did last year. Am I still a blogger if I don’t blog right now? Yes, I’m pretty sure I am, even if most of it happens in my head.