Sometimes I can’t help but feel I’ve missed the boat. Or maybe a better analogy would be that I got a ride when I really should’ve hopped on the bus…years ago.
I’m forty-three now, (yes, my birthday sadly fell amongst last week’s horrors) my oldest boy is seventeen, my middle dude, a big one-four and the titch at the end is somehow soon to be twenty-two thirteen.
I’ve been through the baby years, times three, and some teen years and let’s just say if I wrote about them on a public forum I might wake up with my fingers Crazy Glued together. And that would only be a warning.
I read these mommy blogs and, I love them. I relish them. I devour them. In fact, I unfold in them and, honestly,…I’m jealous of them. These women have so much material! And, their kids are far too short to reach the Crazy Glue.
As for me, well, I’ve done my moving countries, my getting married, my precarious pregnancies, my preemies, my “gee, that birth nearly killed me”, my “damn, I swear this demon baby has not slept in eight months”, my “whoa, this postpartum depression is killing me”, my money meltdowns, my midlife misadventures, my doggy demises and my “good god, I’m woefully not wonderful at anything whines.”
I mean, all those things have passed. What’s left to write about?
On second thought, I’ve toiled so long over my laptop that this *blister has formed on the outside of my arm and having revisited all of the aforementioned ominous and opiate-encouraging topics just to write this post, maybe, subconsciously, I’m hoping there really isn’t anything left…
*Note: this (extremely painful) blister was actually caused by a rogue, lava hot spattering of the stew I made for dinner last night, but as a writer, I reserve the right to change and over-dramatize the facts to benefit the tales I tell. The good news is, this must mean my subconscious’ search for writing material will be extensive and eternal.
Hazy Shades of Me 