So, Nablopomo... I tried, friends, I really tried.
I was all set and excited to spend more time here at MHN this month. When Nablopomo struck (translation: National Blog Post Month, or a month in which we all endeavor to post on our blogs everyday) I thought this was the perfect motivation to get me onto a more regular posting schedule, something I have been stuggling with (ahem) ever since I first set up this space. And then, weekend before last, our household was hit by a double wave of sickness: little man and I got a nasty stomach bug, which we recovered from just in time to be felled by a wicked cold. We're still coughing.
Here's a confession: I am a serial blogger. I first hit Publish right here on Blogger back in the dark ages of 2004, when we had to edit ALL of our own HTML stuff. (You kids don't know how good you've got it.) I was so good at blogging back then that it snagged me a husband--true story. Between that blog and this one lay a sad trail of little clumps of posts, begun in the greatest of hopes and long since abandoned. But this one--oooh, this one, this one is shiny, this one has the feel of a winner. Now I've got the material, a wealth of stuff to write about, share, puzzle out--because I've got this kid now, and I need to figure out all over again every day how to be his mommy--but what I don't have, what I desperately lack, is time.
Here's another confession: I am a schedule addict. I like things to be reliable, predictable, I like to set it and forget it. This is when I practice yoga. This is when I bake muffins. This is when I write on my blog. But, you see, nine-month-olds laugh hysterically in the face of schedules. They mash them between their chubby fingers like so many Cheerios. My son makes a mockery of my need, my deep desire to have things the way I like them. That's fine--that's why he's here, that's why he is the best and greatest teacher I will ever have.
But there you have it--my sparkly dreams of posting every day dashed by baby germs. A perfect little microcosm to illustrate this life of mine. I could throw my hands up and wave the white flag. But I come to you here, nearly 10pm at night, saying--what, exactly? That I fell down. And that I'm picking myself back up again. And that I'm trying my darndest not to judge myself for having fallen, and not to make lofty promises about what'll happen now that I'm standing back up. I am here. Now. Writing. It is all I've got. It is good enough.