I Love You . . . But

BlogHer dumped me.

I can't say I blame them. I hadn't blogged in weeks. Months. (That's cool. I made .49 as per my recent BlogHer check--now I feel guilty that some tree had to suffer for my meager earnings. Great.)

A friend of mine had a baby a week or so ago.
I didn't even know she was pregnant.

I've missed a few appointments.
It's no wonder since I don't even remember making them.

I can be in the middle of a conversation and fall asleep.
Well, what do I expect on only a few hours of sleep?

I have no idea what I look like with make up and hairspray.
But I know exactly what I look like in sweat pants and t-shirts.

My purse has a Buzz Lightyear, a Blue's Clue paw print, and a mini Doc from CARS in it.
I have no idea where my lip gloss went.

"Date Night" involves a movie never watched and a fancy dinner at the Taco Bell.
We usually never get through the movie--sleep is a rare commodity.

I type this as my nearly three-year old climbs on me and points to my tepid coffee and says "So hot!"). I tickle him and her races off preparing for the morning chase. Which means I'm going to have to run . . . again. And again . . .

Time is a rare commodity . . . yet oddly, sometimes it lingers longer than it should in the spaces between bath and bedtime.

Are you ready for the great revelation?

Motherhood is hard.

I get it.

It took a little time, a little distance from the hormonally fueled honeymoon of being a new mom, with my shiny, squeaky things and inflated ideas of perfection. Oh, and I suppose having ANOTHER child provides some clarity as well.

(My nearly three-year old has confiscated a box of "Crunchies" and is now . . . he poured the entire box on his pancake plate. I consider it a victory in that it is ALL on the plate. SCORE!)

I've come a long way from videotaping my living room and posting the elaborate toy "stations" we would go through as the day progressed. I've come a long way from the posts with ethereal photos in the park of a pale-faced, doe-eyed child looking lovingly into the camera. I've come a long way from the rhyming, witty posts about the lack of sleep, ending in a couplet of sweet understanding and love.

A long way . . .

Motherhood is hard. Perhaps "Whiskey in My Sippy Cup" was a clue. I just thought is was a cute blog name. Yeah, I had no idea it was a survival technique. Not that I've tried it . . . yet.

* * *

Jennifer Senior wrote in NEW YORK MAGAZINE about parenting. It wasn't your typical article about the joys of motherhood and the trials and tribulations that end in profound revelations doused in love. Nope.

It was about why parenting sucks--"Why Parents Hate Parenting." (a blog post dedicated to this article is brewing as I write this . . . )

A few years ago I would have scoffed at such a topic. Today, I get it. I love parenting, right? Sure I do. Do I hate parenting? Yes. Some days I do. But the constant is this--I absolutely love my children. Even if I cringe as I peel a Dum Dum out of my hair, change a poop explosion that has spilled out into areas unknown, chase after a toddler as he runs like an Olympian into the parking lot, tend to "business" while my infant eats toilet paper and the toddler "decorates" the bathroom with said paper while "blessing" it with the toilet brush. Yeah. I love them.

I feel like a late arrival to a party where all the games have been played, the wine bottles have been emptied and the party goers sit slouched on tired couches recalling the days of misspent youth. Mommy bloggers have been blogging about their exploits since the blog was first birthed (pun weakly intended). I remember thinking, "Perhaps it will be different for me."

No. It hasn't been.

And for that, I am thankful and desperate, trying to remember why I've abandoned this blog, the blog world.

Oh, yeah. The whole time and sleep thing.

And, while there is not enough blog space for me to thoroughly explore another topic, I think too much. I don't think I have that luxury anymore and quite frankly, it is a luxury I don't need, I never needed. I would ruminate over a blog post until I killed the topic with critical thoughts and misdirected misconceptions. Really, I obliterated perfectly good ideas, worrying about how it sounded, driving myself crazy with fear that it might not be good enough. I was drenched in self-doubt and while drowning, I let go of the story and it let go of me.

Just write, just tell it like it is, with all the raw details, cliches and misspellings you want. So you're no Hemingway. Who cares if what you say is trite or far from profound. It's like blood . . . everyone has it running through their veins, but the difference is that it courses through your body. Your words. Your blood.

Perhaps you'll want to read what I write. If you do, so be it. If you don't, so be it.

I miss this. I do.

And I'm not ready to walk away . . .