My poor blog. I've let it down so. It was there for me. It was called Back to Me! It was a symbol of my reemergence into grown-up life. A life that included things like writing and, um, watching TV and cooking bulgur. Well, it's a symbol for sure. A symbol that the shit that moves me isn't necessarily the shit that comes first. (Clearly, I've honed my exposition skills since my last entry.)When I wrote those early entries so full of excitement about the year and the start back to being a whole person, someone who might someday work at something other than raising decent children, I didn't anticipate that it might be something else that derailed me.
Did any of you ever find yourself with a man so good that you forget how good he is? You forget about the same train he takes to the same job every day to sit at the same desk to bring home the same bacon every day. The bacon he fries up every Saturday so you can sleep in? Did you ever flip through pictures of your kids as babies and see that look on your good man's face? The one that says, damn, this is a great kid. I've got a man like that.
And he's trying to figure out how to leave his cleats on the field. And this maybe means leaving our comfort zones. And we talk about this everyday. And my head could explode. And it's hard to write.
I probably shouldn't chat up Adam's life anymore than I already have, but needless to say, having endless conversations about big change is a lot easier than committing to it.
Some facts:
Am I spoiled princess that likes my yellowfin and lattes? A little bit.
Am I also 34-years old with two children and no career to speak of? Check.
Am I also trying to figure out how to be more than that. Check. (Well, I've perfected aging. It's the career part that is supposed be to going somewhere.)
Do I obsessively worry about this, but actually do very little to change? Very much so yes. And so does Adam. Obsess that is. You see how the endless conversations might be, oh, endless.
Am I doing that right now? Of course.
Do I want to leave my cleats on the field too? Some days more than others.
Does this cause a domestic collide? Some days more than others.
I've got this kid and she's 4 and she's quirky as hell and she yells 'scramble!' when you least expect it and she treats minor injuries like impalements, but during the free dance portion of her ballet class, she totally lets go. She feels the music. She uses the whole space. She's understands how to release her body and just be. She's free.
Around our house lately we've had a tough time being free.
We want more. More time; more creativity; more doing; more space. Less of the same-o. A little more life in our life. And maybe Adam wants it more than I do. For today, at least. And it casts a shadow. And so we turn away from the conversation and proceed as we have. The life we have is pretty nice and we are damn lucky. But soon we are going to feel the music and let go. Soon. At the very least, I know we will talk about doing it.
In honor of my birthday and all the agita 'round the house, plus the general wackadooness and code-talking in this post, I think a little Dr. Seuss is in order:
If we didn't have birthdays, you wouldn't be you.
If you'd never been born, well then what would you do?
If you'd never been born, well then what would you be?
You might be a fish! Or a toad in a tree!
You might be a doorknob! Or three baked potatoes!
You might be a bag full of hard green tomatoes!
Or worse than all that.....
Why you might be a WASN'T.
A Wasn't has no fun at all. No he doesn't.
A Wasn't just isn't. He just isn't present.
But you..... You ARE YOU!
And now isn't that pleasant?
In blogging news (yes, I am reinstating this feature): IDOL!!!! And FNL, Gossip Girl and maybe sad, dying Izzie and George.
