Truth?
Life is not sunny and fantastic right now. It's kind of hard, actually.
Unfortunately there's nothing fantastically dramatic to report, nothing that will bring the flocks of dying-baby-blog voyeurs rushing over to watch the bloggy train wreck. Nobody has cancer, nobody is in rehab, nobody has a rare disease requiring expensive treatments, nobody is getting divorced. It's just life.
It's not the kind of hard I can spill all over my blog (though sometimes I'm tempted). It's the kind of hard where you just have to wake up every morning and put one foot in front of the other and get on with it. It's turned me into more Marilla than Anne - the very picture of grim endurance, focused practicality, and reluctant laughter. I'm not weepy or emotional - I go through my days rather like Captain Von Trapp (pre-Maria, sans whistle). And of course there's the part where I eat myself into oblivion whenever I start to feel anything approaching an emotion. (This, I am quite sure, is called "having your mental health.")
(SIDE NOTE: Did you know there is apparently a COPAY for gastric bypass surgery? And that it is almost THREE THOUSAND DOLLARS? Did you know this? Because I DID NOT KNOW THIS. And now I have added this to the list of reasons why I should probably just go ahead and throw myself over the side of a large cliff.)
(Or at least a very high curb.)
(I'm not actually suicidal, just attention seeking.)
Blogging about it puts me into a kind of gross, self-pitying, melodramatic place (this post being EXHIBIT A). I handle things much better when I don't dwell, when I wake up and put everything into it's appropriately compartmentalized place (again with the mental health), slap on a little dose of perspective and get on with my life.
Because the truth is that my life right now is just the kind of hard that everyone goes through sometimes.
It's NOT the kind of hard that gets you a book deal.
(UNFORTUNATELY.)
So there's that.
We are living in Woods Cross now, beautiful land of train tracks and enraged mosquitoes. Every morning I step outside (at 5:30AM, when I leave for work, so that I can be home by 2:30 to be with my littles), see the sun starting to peep over the gravel pit in the distance, take a deep whiff of refinery fuel and think, "Man. What a craphole."
(Well. I DO. I HATE IT here. I'm a locational snob, apparently. I don't know what we were thinking when we signed the lease. We were sort of in a panic at the time.)
Bright side: The kids are happy. The house is nice. The neighborhood is nice. The neighbors are nice. There's a pool. We've done some fun family stuff this summer - no vacations, but weekend jaunts to area lakes and parks. Josh is walking and almost ONE. Jake just started kindergarten. The girls love their new school and friends.
But I H-A-T-E it here. I hate working not from home (I know, cry me a river, you have a JOB, and a flexible schedule, and whatever, shut up, I know, I KNOW), and I hate paying so much for a sitter, and I hate living away from our beloved neighborhood, and I hate the fact that our finances are still an ever loving mess, and I hate all of this stress, and I hate my friendly new neighbors for not being my friendly old neighbors, and NO I don't want to join their book club, and my husband makes this weird noise with his nose when he is breathing - - and - and do you SEE NOW WHY I SHOULDN'T BE BLOGGING?
(You see? How obnoxious? With the blogging and the self-pity?)
So all that was just my way of saying, I'm sorry for not blogging and unfortunately, I can't promise a return to any kind of regular blogging schedule.
(Although COME ON, it's ME, who are we kidding. I'll be back.)
(Attention seeking is like a DISEASE, it is.)
(I'm closing comments again. Not because I don't appreciate your love and support and friendship, NOT because I doubt that you'd have good advice for me, but because sometimes you just need to keep your own counsel. I have enough voices in my head already.)
