Someone emailed me this week, and asked if I was giving up blogging. I am not.
It sure seems like it, though.
When I started this blog, I had five kids. My oldest was ten years old, and I had just given birth to my fifth child. One of the first blog posts I remember writing was discussing what a good, even tempered baby she was.
So much with the boring posts. :)
I like to think I've become a better writer. A more interesting writer. A writer people might want to read.
But I really don't know what to write about, anymore.
My oldest child is no longer a child. He's a 22 year old man. He works for a national company in a good field. He's doing really well at moving up the company ladder, had a serious girlfriend and they are making long term plans. He's got a great story. It's not my story.
My second oldest is also a grown up young adult. She's 20. She's working hard, has a great philosophy and is becoming a fantastic, helpful, interesting person - one who has a great story. Everyone who meets her loves her, and it does this mama's heart proud to hear that she's just as wonderful outside of the house as in it. Her story - it's not my story.
My third child is almost out of high school. She's a junior with straight A's, in AP and advanced classes, who also attends performing arts school 4 hours a day (after 4.5 hours of high school) and is majoring in vocal studies. She's working on things that I don't even understand, and her level of knowledge leaves me in the dust. She's got a wonderful bright future - and a story that is not my own.
My fourth child, my second son, is quickly outpacing my knowledge of, well, everything. He talks to me about concepts I don't understand, and imagines things I could never dream of. He also has straight A's (and I won't talk about this much, except to say that I fought for years to get a 504, and the grades this kid is capable of now that his educational needs are being met are FANTASTIC and I'm more than slightly bitter we lost so many good years) and also attends performing arts school 4 hours a day. He just finished as First Chair Tuba in districts and moves on to states, and he's got a bright, shining future, this kid I've so worried about for so many years. His story is his and not mine.
#5 is an amazing specimen of intrigue. She is smart, strong willed, stubborn, creative and I don't even know how, but is a 6th middle school student who attended her very first school dance tonight. Unlike her mother, she had an absolute blast and can't wait to go again. She's also a straight A student. She's been asked to play French Horn with the 7th and 8th grade band, takes piano and is picking it up more quickly than we all thought possible. It doesn't seem possible, but her story is separating from mine.
And, finally, my youngest. My baby. It's funny - my girlfriend has her 6th child, a 3 year old, and she confided to me that she feels as if she will never, ever go to the grocery store alone. I remember that. I remember feeling as if I would be a mom of littles forever and ever, carrying babies and toting diaper bags - and all of a sudden, this little girl is getting up at 6 to go hang out with her best friend at the friend's gymnastics meet, and then spending the day with her friend, and going directly to a sleepover (with her older sister at a nanny job) - and not even calling her mom once. She is finding her way - and her story is not mine.
I've written about autism, asthma, food allergies, special needs, educational issues, sibling issues and the difficulties of raising a larger than typical family in today's society - but now, those people who have those issues read those posts, and those issues are becoming private issues - as it should be. I stand by things I've written in the past, and I know that they've been helpful, and I don't regret them - but they have become stories for those who struggle with them to handle, and in whatever way they want to handle them. Maybe they will start a blog on those issues. Maybe not. They aren't my stories, and it's not up to me to decide.
My daily life - well, it's pretty boring without those stories.
I work. I work a lot. I get up early, I get everyone out the door, which is an Olympic feat in and of itself, and then sit down to work. I take breaks to drive people to doctor appointments, deliver forgotten lunches and books and computers and instruments, toss in a load of wash, punch down a rise of bread dough, and sit back down at the computer. I get people from school, drive people to endless practices, rehearsals, shows, pack countless meals to eat on the go, work some more, feed them and go to bed.
I love my life, but my life doesn't seem to lead itself to blogging anymore. Those stories, the ones that used to meld so seamlessly with mine and lend so much color, have separated, and what appeared at one point to be a rainbow of color - has ended up with me sitting in a pool of white.
White is pretty boring.
But. i'll keep plugging along here, because I can't imagine not blogging. I can't imagine my life without opening up that blank screen and staring at it, looking at my fingertips and wondering what, exactly, will come out.
Thanks for reading. I really mean that. Thank you. I appreciate each and every one of you, and feel, somehow, as if I've let you down because, at the crux of it all, I'm pretty boring all by myself.
My story appears to lack oomph and excitement when it's a stand alone volume.