August 31, 2009


One year ago, Big Daddy got me this website for my birthday.  I’m no internet noob. He got me my first website for my 24th Birthday.  I’ve been maintaining some sort of website for 10 years now, starting with free sites, branching out to my family site and moving to here.

When considering my body of work over the last year, I don’t write as prolifically as I used to. I used to be able to crank out a post a day with ideas to spare.  However, that was when I only had one, fairly low maintenance child which made finding time to write a lot easier than it is now.  I have blogged about everything in the course of my multiple years of blogging, from recipes to poop.  From death to birth.  I’ve run the gaumet.

This site hasn’t yet evolved into what it is that I envision it as.  It’s a process.  We’re growing together, this site and me.  For a while I blogged only about knitting.  Now I kind of blog about everything.  This blog kind of seems like it has MPD sometimes, but I think it’s becoming a good representation of me as a person.  Not that I have MPD.  That came out wrong.  Just that my interests and focuses are varried.

One thing I hope to attain with my blogging is presenting, for my girlies, a total picture of our lives.  All the pieces.    Good and Bad.  After my Mom died, my Dad gave me a pile of letters she had written.  There were some for each of my siblings and some for my Dad.  The letters were written during the worst of my teenage years.  I have no doubt that I was a miserable shit and that I was mean to her.  Unfortunately, my mom only journaled through what I assume was the worst of those years, when I was hormonal teenager and my little sister had colic and my brother was my brother.

I have to say that those letters weren’t anything I would have chosen to read and I think that I ended up throwing them out.  On accident, but they’re not missed.  The point?  I actually have one. ;o)  The point is, I’m sure as time passed my Mom didn’t have to hunt to find the good in me (yes, she said that and since she’s dead and I can’t ask her WTF that was supposed to mean) and that it was obvious.  Before she died we were very, very close, but getting those letters was like getting punched.  Hard.  Somewhere seriously painful.  That fragmented bit of my Mom’s journaling was painful, harmful and difficult.  So what does that have to do with all of this?

The whole picture.  The purpose is the whole picture.  The sweet that goes along with the sour.  That there is sweet.  That there is always sweet.

Today is one of those days.  If you have kids, you know them.  One of those days where you start chanting in your head that you should be grateful.  That people would give anything to have what you have, crying baby, spit-up, poop, pee, screaming, fighting, possible toddler bites and all.  Chanting it.  “I’m Grateful, I’m Grateful, I’m Grateful.”  My Mom wrote letters.  A handful.  Maybe a dozen or a dozen and a half.  About the sour.  Never the sweet.

And the sweet is worth it all.

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