I Should Sit Down and Write....

I tell myself every day....

I should sit down and write.

But I don't. And I haven't. I haven't sat down to write in so long that when I wrote the second line in this post, I spelled 'right', then 'wright' before I finally realized, oh yeah, you mean WRITE.

And now I'm wondering....is that how you spell write? It looks wrong. What's wrong with it? (Me doing it, that's what looks wrong.)

I have officially become stupid. In case you weren't convinced before.

I should sit down and write. 

But I don't. Pinterest has become my latest quasi-obsession instead. Recipes I won't cook! Home decorating projects I'll never do! Cute crafts that I'll never make! Fashionable clothes I'll never buy! Homeschooling ambitions I'll never fulfill! All cataloged in one place! Who needs a dusty, unused college degree to remind you of your under-achievements!  NOT ME.

Pinterest - it's like crack and an abusive pimp all rolled into one.

I should sit down and write.

But I don't. I have two children to teach. I have pedagogical books to read so I can pretend I know what I'm doing. I then have other pedagogical books to read that make me realize NO ONE knows what the fuck they are doing. I have curriculum to plan, learning styles to ponder, self doubts to nurse.

I should sit down and write.

But I don't. Wally pops his head in and tells me he is finished peeling the shrimp. Hungry children are cranky. Shrimp beg to be fried. Potatoes to slice and butter. White wine in the fridge.

I should sit down and write.

Maybe later.

My Life, Day 10: Clean Day

Mrs. Meyer's Clean Day

It could be slightly more accurate by calling itself "Mrs. Meyer's Clean Day, All Day" because that's what I did. Cleaned all day. Boy, this daily life photo documentary really makes me feel like my life has meaning!

Ooo, look.

Seashells. Exciting, huh? Can you honestly keep yourself from jumping on Twitter and saying, "Look! Heather has seashells!"?

I don't know why I took a picture of those damn things. Except it's the first time I've decorated my kitchen sideboard table since...well, since Then. I'm one of those cutesy annoying housewives who likes to have a small place in the house that changes with the seasons/holidays - Halloween, Christmas, Easter, summer, etc. You probably want to friend divorce me now. 

(Do I get palimony? Heh. Get it? Pal? Friend?)

(Oh god, save me from myself. I obviously NEED HUMOR HELP.)

Since Halloween, the table has been either completely bare or cluttered with useless crap - an outward reflection of the in, huh? It sounds stupid, really, but walking into the kitchen and seeing the table decorated again feels like maybe a part of me is awake again.

Maybe this daily life photo documentary does make my life feel like it has meaning after all.

My life, Day 9: Best Omelets

"Mom, you make the best omelets."

Why, thank you, son. Making an omelet is very complicated, with the all the cracking the egg, the whipping it, the grating of the cheese. Sigh. Exhausting, really. I'm so glad you appreciate the extreme effort I go to in the morning to make you a gourmet cheese omelet, complete with KRAFT cheese. 

You're welcome.

My Life, Day 8: Photo Not Found

Oops.

Photo Not Found

Because I didn't take one. Not. A. One. So yes, I lasted all of six days to my commitment. See, let me explain how things work around here. I make rules for myself. I follow them diligently for days. Say, six days for example. And then I'm like, FUCK THAT RULE SHIT! 

Let me give you another example. We joined a pool club this summer. Have I mentioned it? In, like, twenty dozen hundred pictures on instagram? I tell myself I will eat very healthy, having only fruits and vegetables for snacks, because I will look good in a tankini and not like a mom in a swimsuit, DAMN IT. I follow that rule diligently for days. Say, six days, for example. And then I'm like, FUCK THAT RULE SHIT, I'M MAKING SOME GODDAMN BROWNIES. 

And then I gobble half a pan of brownies because I broke my toe at the pool and can't go as frequently anyway. 

And now on top of that I'm bloated with perimenopausal PMS bloat, which, holy mother sperm whale, what the fuck? Is gray hair not enough? Saggy boobs? Wrinkles? Cellulite on my ass? Obviously this whole aging process isn't glamorous enough, so now Mother Nature demands an additional week of bloated belly brought to you by flatulence.

Ugh. I told myself if I started back with this writing thing, I would be more sophisticated and refined and not drop the F bomb so much or talk about farts. Well, we see how that fucking went. NOT WELL. I also told myself I would post the pictures daily. But I've been post-dating them instead when I finally steal my computer back from my children. I'm not only breaking my own rules, but then cheating too. I'm clothed in awesomeness.

I also told myself that if I didn't take pictures, it would be okay because that would mean a day I'd have to sit down and actually write. Because forced creativity is always awesome! So I pick a meme to write! How original! And I will write something nice and funny and light and....wha? 

What the hell was that fucked up mess? Putridness came out instead, not light, funny memories. It's all very confusing, because while I was completely honest about those parts of my early life, it's not like my childhood was all bad.  But twelve adult years of ripping a family unit apart bit by bit is enough to storm across a lifetime of memories, leaving it all clouded in shadow. 

We parents...we never stop touching, shaping, and influencing the lives of our children. Never. There is no moment when "our job is done" and our actions don't color our children. We're forever intertwined, perhaps even after death. 

After I wrote that, my dad came to me in a dream that night. That first sight of him - I have no words to describe how it feels.

He was trying to tell me something.

I still can't hear him.

My Life, Day 7: Slave Driver

This is how I have fun on Saturdays.

Slave labor.

It's the only reason I had kids, I swear.

Slave is not happy.

This is my problem how?

Slave Driver is manically happy.

My Life, Day 6:

Perfect pool day

And when I say perfect, I mean the boys went four straight hours without fighting. This must have been a divinely ordained Summer Vacation Miracle, granted by the Virgin Mary, of course. Because she raised a boy. 

Later that night a certain eight-year-old kicked our asses in poker.

 

I had to buy another set of poker chips just so Wally and I can hang in the game with this kid. 

It's embarrassing, really.

My Life, Day 5: Toes Beware

Returned to the site of trauma

I'm brave, ya'll.

More like bored out of my mind. 

How did I EVER get through summer vacation in the deep South without a pool club membership?