Story is a chatterbox. She talks before she’s out of bed. She talks as she’s getting ready for school. She talks as she brushes her teeth. She talks as she follows me around the house. She talks as she’s falling asleep. The girl has a lot to say. Except at dinnertime.
For some reason, she becomes a teenager at the table, answering my questions with generic phrases, or worse, grunts.
A week or so ago we were experiencing a pretty great day. The weather let up from a cold spell, and the girls were behaving wonderfully. The universe was giving the green light to make a much-needed trip to the park. We packed up and made our way to one of our favorites.
It sits close to town and has an abundance of trees, open space, and most important, a good-sized park with a fence around to keep kiddos from escaping. My favorite feature. It is also known to be the hangout of people who march to the beat of their own drummer. This town calls them hippies, and I suppose for all intents and purposes they are. But, they are certainly their own brand of hippie. It’s not unusual to see at this park someone walking across a tight rope to your left, a unicycler to your right, and a band of hula-hooping gothic-looking women before you. It’s hard not to hum “Looking out my back door” by CCR in your head as you walk to the park gate.
I write this on the birthday of Bob Newhart, who said, “Laughter gives us distance. It allows us to step back from an event, deal with it and then move on.” For weeks, I have been trying to answer for myself and for this essay the question of why we blog, in particular, why mothers blog while raising their children and what effect the blog has on those children.
I’m sure I asked this question at some point, especially considering there have been several opportunities to ponder this in the six years since Story’s birth. I don’t remember there being any conflict in my mind, so it isn’t surprising that I didn’t give it a second thought as Story and I prepared to attend a visitation for the son of friends this past week. After arriving, we signed the guestbook (Story signed her own name) and stood in the long line of people paying their respects. (more…)
Monday began like any other day. I woke up early, took care of the dog, worked, cleaned just enough to make myself feel like I did something, and drank about a gallon of coffee. I went upstairs, finished getting myself ready, picked out clothes for the girls, and then wrangled them into those clothes. We brushed teeth and hair, sang a bit, had a couple minor meltdowns, and eventually made our way downstairs when everyone seemed calm and was smelling decent. On the lower level, they each demanded the normal morning niceties: a new milk sippy, their gummy vitamins, their blankies. Then one by one, we entered the car and drove to school. (more…)