Sometimes when I'm feeling all gushy and nostalgic, or searching for those feelings, I'll go back and read old posts; which, much to my surprise, there are exactly eight hundred and three of!
And you people wonder why I don't write as much as I used to?
I've already said everything there is to say!
But ah, that is not the way life is. I may think I have already exhausted every known subject regarding mothering on the face of the planet, but I would be so so wrong. Because really, I've probably only just begun. Life twists and turns and pulls and it's never over at the end of the show when the fat lady sings, oh no, that is when all the fun begins.
Here I am with TWO teenaged boys and a brand-new eight-year-old daughter.
She was two-years-old when I started writing online. Practically her entire existence has been documented in this vast, voyeuristic, viral world called blogging...which kind of freaks me out just a little bit. To put it in perspective, she was still potty training when I began sharing our lives with The Internet.
And now she talks about getting her ears pierced - which, by the way, she will have to wait another four years for. I may have shared her bathroom accomplishments with the entire world, but I won't let her get her ears pierced before she's twelve. Exactly what kind of mother do you think I am?
Don't answer that.
I have written probably no less than twenty posts about what I lovingly have referred to (IN THE PAST) as "the loud." The loud is what my boys are; my loud, goofy, wrestling one another like he's an alligator boys. For some strange reason, I thought this state of being would only be temporary, certainly not an existence that would span years. Boy was I wrong. Just today, while they were wrestling a la alligator style, one of them sprained his TOE.
I had just about had it come 9pm, when all I wanted was a little (just a bit) peace and quiet so that I could bake my Thanksgiving pies without all that negativity and shooting arrows from my eyeballs karma infecting the delicious desserts we would be consuming tomorrow. It really wasn't so much to ask, at least I didn't think so.
But he who shall remain nameless (okay, my husband...I'm not fooling anyone) disagreed and wanted to spend more quality time with the kids.
Quality time? Are you kidding me. These are the same offspring who no less than 3 hours ago were snorting and running around the house like those hoofed animals in that last Hannibal Lector movie...
But he and I don't always see eye to eye on these issues.
And so a compromise was negotiated and a later bedtime was achieved. I took this opportunity to fold more laundry and sulk in our office because it was the only place in the house not occupied by teenagers or American Girl paraphernalia. As I carefully matched socks and placed t-shirts on top of their respective piles, I dreamed of a 3,000 square foot house with a man cave so many levels below me that I would never, ever see them. I relished in my fantasy as I unloaded the dryer and inhaled the clean scent of the warm towels (incidentally, nothing, and I mean NOTHING, compares to the instant gratification of completing - which means from washer to put away - a load of laundry...or 12), folding each one in threes and readying them for their spot in the linen closet. A big house...lots of room...no kids or husband in sight...
And then the buzzer on one of the pies I had in the oven rang and I realized something.
I would miss them.
And for that, my friends, I am truly grateful.