I had a lot to say in my first few years of motherhood -- about feminism, about the mommy wars, about sewing, about cooking, about working motherhood, about motherhood, full stop. And, as it turns out, I had a lot of time (little did I perceive it) to write all of those thoughts, and feelings, and opinions, and occasional silliness or vitriol down.
I've slowed down. But I'm still thinking. I still have opinions, thoughts.
Perhaps, I've settled in.
I just spent some time -- just now before starting to compose this post -- scrolling through my rather impressive library of past blog posts. I was trying to come up with an idea for today's post.
Maybe there's an unfinished post (and there are a few), I thought, that I could dust off, revise and complete, and then post. Voila! I'd be back at it.
But the thing is, even this one post I'd written back in May 2016 about the whole transpersons in the bathroom controversy seems stale now. It's nearly complete, that post -- I just needed to add a couple of links and a photo of Chaz Bono. Maybe I could go ahead and post it as a nostalgia-for-the-beginning-of-the-summer-of-2016 post . . . . Maybe . . . . I need to find a good picture of Chaz Bono.
I've felt guilty about not writing. What have I been doing?
Oh, a little bit of this:
A little bit of that:
Certainly, I write a lot at work. It's 90% of my job. But, you know, it's not "fun writing." It's not for me. It's important, sure, and I need to do it well (and I do, I flatter myself), but it's not self-expression. (Though, occasionally, even legal writing can be creative.)
It's not exactly that I have writer's block. But that I, oh, I don't know . . . .
And, I guess that's it, I don't know.
In the halcyon days of my early 40s, so young and brash, I knew things, and I wrote them down for you good people to read. As I age, I feel more confident in myself and less confident in the world and how it works or should work.
And I certainly care far less about what others think of me and what I do. And I care less about what others do too as long as they (a) don't bother me and (b) are not harming others. With those caveats, if you want to make your own red food coloring out of beets rather than buy it at the store -- even though that sounds like a soul sucking vortex of wasted time and effort for little appreciation and only a vaguely red product -- I have no real beef with that. More power to you. Who am I to judge? But please don't make me do it with you. I'll just go to the Kroger and pick up some McCormick's gel food coloring and be done with it, thank you very much.
I think I've been focusing more on changing myself than changing opinions or the world. I meditate in the morning. I work out more. I do yoga. And yet I write less. But that's no good. Writing is part of that personal change process too . . . or so I am given to understand.
Anyway . . . . My kid has gotten older. And raising him becomes more and more fun and more and more difficult. Because . . . . see?, when I started this blog, he didn't have opinions, not real ones, not considered ones. He was a cute blob of giggling potential. Slowly, he grew, in brain and body.
And now: now, he has opinions. He can debate -- not argue, debate. My five year old child can form a coherent argument and respond with retorts so pointed, factual, profound and biting that it can set his parents on their heels. And we're lawyers. Being rhetorically bested by a five year old when between yourself and your spouse there are 40 years of legal experience is humbling and perspective giving.
Still, having a kid with seriously great verbal skills means that talking to him is tremendous fun (when you're not at loggerheads). He's funny and quick and tells interesting and creative stories. (I've always said that I like little kids better than babies because you can have amazing conversations with little kids, and I stand by that opinion.)
And he has interests and real talents -- he's no longer a ball of potential. He is a ball of accomplishments and potential. I look at him and I see the baby, and I see the little boy, and I see the projection of the college freshman. This kid is interesting. His interests have rekindled long-forgotten interests of my own. Rather than writing about being his mother, I find that I just want to be his mother. Less reflection, less contemplation, more in the moment. Less meta, more physical.
And yet, I do like to write.
But what should I write about? I don't know. See? That's where my head is, now, "I don't know."
But I'm going to try to come back to this blog, fresh, and back to writing. I'm not sure what I'll write, but I think I should write. It's a thing that I like to do. Some days it may be about momming, I'm sure. I suspect many times, it will just be whatever the heck I might be thinking when I sit down to write. So, maybe, sometimes, there could be scary monsters here. I can't tell . . . because I don't know.
This isn't a promise of regularity, but an aspiration, an intention. I promise myself (and you, if you need that from me) that I will try.
At any rate, welcome back to my blog, if you've not visited in awhile.
Or welcome, new visitor, if you have stumbled in here for the first time. I've got a few years of essays for you to peruse if you're bored. Or not . . . just start here. I don't mind. I'll just write.
Now, I need to go find a photograph of Chaz Bono so I can very belatedly publish that post about bathrooms . . . maybe.