I have sat down to write down about my freak out (plus a million other things that are swimming around in my head) no less than 25 times in the last couple of months. For some reason, I have stalled. Either I get distracted by family stuff, work stuff or both.
But I'm always busy. We're always busy. Everyone is always busy. Making time. That is what I haven't done lately for myself. Making time to sort out all the fear, frustration, etc. that has been poking my insides for a while now.
Sometimes its easier to ignore the poking. That is until it gets to the point of hurting.
Over the weekend, I met a woman who has read my blog almost since the beginning. She mentioned to me how it seems the purpose of my blog has changed. I hadn't given it much thought, but her words stuck with me. What started out as light-hearted and funny stories about my life with small children -- and an outlet for some of the tedium and ridiculousness and joy and hilarity of raising said small children -- has become an avenue for me to stay true to myself.
I never meant for the blog to become therapeutic, but sometimes you get help in unexpected ways. And I looked at some of my recent posts and boy do I sound bummed. But it's the truth. It's not all of me, but it's me when I most need to write...when I am struggling. The longer I write, the more this blog is simply about this: authenticity. That I am not perfect. My family is not perfect. And the more I write about how unperfect we are, the stronger I feel about life and its ups and downs.
And so when you need help, you do what has worked for you in the past. And that is what I am doing now.
Again, back to the freakout. I am closing in on a milestone age. I never, ever, never thought I would have the feelings I am having about getting older. I just never gave getting older much thought -- until I got older.
On the fun side, my husband is throwing me a party where some of my favorite people on earth will be in attendance. But still...wig-gin.
Now before you go thinking that this is some lesson on vanity, it's not. Don't get me wrong, I notice my hands a bit more wrinkled, those lines around my mouth deepening, the grey hairs (that started in my 20s and used to make me laugh -- the novelty of a 20-year-old with some stray grey hairs!) that now are exercising manifest destiny on the continent that is my scalp. But, more than that, I am happy. Deliriously happy. And I don't want it to end. It's the fatalist in me. I feel my life going. And going. And going. It's too fucking fast. I am a total cliche. But here I sit, writing these words and feeling them.
When I think about how old I am turning this year, I catch my breath. Please, God, slow it down. Those babies aren't going to be babies for much longer and it kills me. One day I am going to be old and it may not be pretty. And, good god that scares the living daylights out of me. To the point where if I think about it, I feel short of breath.
But today. Today, today, today, today. What is life like today? Today is good. Today is more than good. It's happy and funny and tiring and blissful and busy and full of so much love I am not sure how this little house contains it all. So, that's my plan. To stay in it. Today, that is.
I'll let you know how that goes. And in the meantime, today looks like this. And I couldn't ask for anything more.
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