Happy Blogiversary!

This blog is officially one year old!

No introspection. No re-cap of the year.

Just yay!

Yay me!

I needed that.

Free at Last!

I declare this home a boy free zone for the next few days and boy (ha!) am I looking forward to it!

Aquaman just departed in his truck packed to the gills (I am soooo funny!) with fishing, snorkeling and diving gear headed for our old hamlet, Port Aransas.  But that's not the best part.  The best part is that HE TOOK THE REDHEAD, THING 1 AND THING 2 WITH HIM!  (Those all caps mean I'm yelling!  Shouting from the rooftops!)

Yep, I am alone with Yellow Dog.  Just us girls.

I cannot begin to explain the relief that this provides.  Can you feel my giddiness?

So what's the first thing that I did?  I washed the stacks of dishes that were piled in the two sinks, on the table, and all over the kitchen counters.  And I lamented the misfortune of having three children who are simply incapable of using just one cup for any length of time.

This is what was left when I could stuff no more into the dishwasher - eight cups.  Amassed over a 24-hour period.  We only have three children.  When I read my friend Sarah's blog about the same topic, I felt better.  But I only let myself catch up on some blog reading after I tackled the laundry.

No, that's not all of it.  Just what's left on the floor.  There's more in the bedrooms - but I made some headway.  Enough to allow myself to get on the computer and write.  Which brings me to the enigma I've found myself facing all summer:  

I'm a writer that writes about my children and family but they take up so much time that I don't have time to write about them but without them I wouldn't have anything to write about.  

Did you get that?  

Really?  Cause I don't even understand it.  That's why I said it was an enigma.  

This has been a problem all summer.  "School's out for summer!" is the anthem we gleefully cheer in late spring.  But what it really means is that the three musketeers are with me 24/7.  And Aquaman has some much deserved time off.  So all my lovelies are here.  With me.  And it drives me crazy after a while.  

The crazy driving makes for good material.  So I jot things down on post-its and the backs of grocery receipts and in my little Moleskine notebook that I carry in my purse.  But I don't have time to really write about it.  And post it to this blog.  Or polish it and submit it to essay contests and literary journals.  Because I'm busy cooking and cleaning and planning fun day trips and swimming with them and visiting people and driving them to camp and vacation bible school and organizing their rooms.  And working a full-time job from home.  

So what goes?  The writing.  And the reading.  And that really drives me nuts.  I start to become a not-so-nice-momma when I go without reading and writing for any length of time.  And when I feel guilty for sneaking those things in because some voice tells me I really should be watching a movie with my husband or reading to my children before bed (yes, we still do that), or walking the dog - that's when I begin to get resentful.  Resentful is not healthy.  I know this.  

Which is precisely why I am so grateful that they're all gone.  They are on their way to the coast to frolic in the sun and surf and see old friends.  

And me?  Well, I plan on doing a lot of this:

    

And these two library books are waiting for me:  

I also have aspirations of getting myself to the nearby outlet mall, unencumbered by menfolk, to leisurely browse the aisles of any damn store I feel like without having to answer questions like, "What are you looking for, again?" and "How much longer?"  If you think that's delusional, I also have plans to buy some fabric and make some cafe curtains for the bathroom based on something I saw on Pinterest.  I will also be content to eat hot dogs and corn dogs and other processed meats while Aquaman is not around to see it and make me feel abnormal about my tube steak addiction.  And I will go and buy some expensive chocolate and eat it.  All.  By.  Myself.      

These things will make me happy.  I will be content.  And if enough time passes with me feeling this way, I will insanely begin to wish those bundles of testosterone were home.  So they could drive me crazy.  So I could write about it.  

But not yet.  Not yet.            

Writing = Therapy

The New York Times published this article recently about a study that confirms that writing can be therapeutic - specifically, blogging.

The study was conducted with teenagers who, of course, were in a better state of mind if they blogged about their lives and insecurities and received positive comments on those blog posts than those who simply kept a diary or those who wrote nothing.

Our family lore includes me writing and  burying nasty notes about my siblings and parents in the brick sidewalk outside our farmhouse.  I was young.  Like first and second grade young.  My older sister once spied on me and witnessed me burying one of these notes, dug it up, and brought it to our mother - sure that I'd receive a proper punishment for the angry and condemning words I'd written about my family.  Instead, my older sister was admonished and told to return the note beneath its spot in the brick sidewalk.  My mom thought it was a good outlet for me and she wasn't going to discourage it.  Or let my sister.

So I guess my mom supported my writing from the beginning.

I do remember writing hateful notes about what I saw as my horrible family.  I once left a note on my bed saying something to the effect of, "I hate you all.  Goodbye."  and went to live in our tree house.  My dad came for me by sunset and promised me that no matter how bad things seemed, home was better than the alternative.  I remember thinking that I had nothing for supper up in that tree house, so I might as well go back home.

But what the writing did for me - in these bursts of fury - was make me feel better.  Exactly what this study found.  I like it when that happens.      

And that is why I love blogging today - although I try not to be a hater like my 6-year-old self clearly was.