“Why aren’t you blogging anymore?” a friend recently asked me. “What happened? What have you been doing?”
What, indeed.
Where did my blog go? It’s five o’clock in the morning, the world is quiet except for the songbirds, I am waiting for the coffee to brew and wondering that same thing. What happened to my blog?
Well, one day it left, and took my brain with it. Just like that. It happened on the last day of school. When that big yellow bus rumbled ‘round the corner, my writing brain made like a tree, and leaved.
I’ve been too busy to miss it. The moment that the big yellow school bus came to a stop in a billowing cloud of dust in front of my house, the music soundtrack of my life slowed to a lone bamboo flute solo. An ominous warning.
The dust cloud swirled and parted, and a crowd of children emerged from the door, tumbling out like a dumped bag of marbles. They rolled down the driveway and swarmed my house, shedding backpacks and worksheets, noodle projects and musical instruments.
They say they are here for the summer.
Some of them I don’t even recognize.
Yesterday, I was trying to count kids, which is difficult to do without a brain. One, two, three downstairs filming a war trilogy on my phone. Four, five, six on bikes. Seven, eight playing ukuleles, nine digging through my refrigerator, hungry again. Ten, eleven, twelve looking for car keys, thirteen, fourteen on a date…gosh, I am the fifteenth person I counted in my house, and it’s almost suppertime.
Yikes.
Good thing I used to live in Vegas; I can deal out gluten free rice cakes at the table just like a blackjack dealer, and call it supper. One, two for you. Do you like your peanut butter crunchy or creamy, dear? I can’t remember. Pass the jam, please. Feet off the furniture. Did you wash your hands? How many food groups are included in peanut butter and jelly rice cakes? I don’t actually care at this time of the day.
“And God bless the cook!” one of the little ones never fails to say. She smiles at me, a genuine, sparkly-eyed, full of love and admiration sort of smile. “Thanks, Mom, for supper.”
And I pause.
The kid is grateful, thanking me for rice cakes.
For a brief moment, I am sad. I should work harder. Do more.
“Mom” harder. As if “Mom” is a verb, something I do. But I’m so busy Momming this part of the world that I sometimes lose track of my real job. I drive to swim lessons, I get them to work, I shop for food, I veto the movies they select, I bandage their cat scratches and skinned up knees when they crash their bike in the creek, I teach them to drive (white knuckes gripping the door handle, shrieking and gasping the whole way) I make them wear life jackets and sometimes make them eat broccoli.
I am Momming.
But Mom is not something I do, it’s who I am.
That’s why my blogging is scarce.
It is summer, and I am Mom.
So here it is, 6 o’clock in the morning, a warm coffee mug is in my hand. The birds are still singing, and Someone Small is cuddled up to me on the couch with a tattered copy of Little House in the Big Woods. I don’t want to keep her waiting. She has a playing card, a nine of clubs for a bookmark, and it’s holding open Dance at Grandpa’s.
This is a page I don’t want to miss. An important chapter in her life.
So cherish your summer, Blog Friends.
I’ll bet my writing brain will come back when the school bus returns.
What, indeed.
Where did my blog go? It’s five o’clock in the morning, the world is quiet except for the songbirds, I am waiting for the coffee to brew and wondering that same thing. What happened to my blog?
Well, one day it left, and took my brain with it. Just like that. It happened on the last day of school. When that big yellow bus rumbled ‘round the corner, my writing brain made like a tree, and leaved.
I’ve been too busy to miss it. The moment that the big yellow school bus came to a stop in a billowing cloud of dust in front of my house, the music soundtrack of my life slowed to a lone bamboo flute solo. An ominous warning.
The dust cloud swirled and parted, and a crowd of children emerged from the door, tumbling out like a dumped bag of marbles. They rolled down the driveway and swarmed my house, shedding backpacks and worksheets, noodle projects and musical instruments.
They say they are here for the summer.
Some of them I don’t even recognize.
Yesterday, I was trying to count kids, which is difficult to do without a brain. One, two, three downstairs filming a war trilogy on my phone. Four, five, six on bikes. Seven, eight playing ukuleles, nine digging through my refrigerator, hungry again. Ten, eleven, twelve looking for car keys, thirteen, fourteen on a date…gosh, I am the fifteenth person I counted in my house, and it’s almost suppertime.
Yikes.
Good thing I used to live in Vegas; I can deal out gluten free rice cakes at the table just like a blackjack dealer, and call it supper. One, two for you. Do you like your peanut butter crunchy or creamy, dear? I can’t remember. Pass the jam, please. Feet off the furniture. Did you wash your hands? How many food groups are included in peanut butter and jelly rice cakes? I don’t actually care at this time of the day.
“And God bless the cook!” one of the little ones never fails to say. She smiles at me, a genuine, sparkly-eyed, full of love and admiration sort of smile. “Thanks, Mom, for supper.”
And I pause.
The kid is grateful, thanking me for rice cakes.
For a brief moment, I am sad. I should work harder. Do more.
“Mom” harder. As if “Mom” is a verb, something I do. But I’m so busy Momming this part of the world that I sometimes lose track of my real job. I drive to swim lessons, I get them to work, I shop for food, I veto the movies they select, I bandage their cat scratches and skinned up knees when they crash their bike in the creek, I teach them to drive (white knuckes gripping the door handle, shrieking and gasping the whole way) I make them wear life jackets and sometimes make them eat broccoli.
I am Momming.
But Mom is not something I do, it’s who I am.
That’s why my blogging is scarce.
It is summer, and I am Mom.
So here it is, 6 o’clock in the morning, a warm coffee mug is in my hand. The birds are still singing, and Someone Small is cuddled up to me on the couch with a tattered copy of Little House in the Big Woods. I don’t want to keep her waiting. She has a playing card, a nine of clubs for a bookmark, and it’s holding open Dance at Grandpa’s.
This is a page I don’t want to miss. An important chapter in her life.
So cherish your summer, Blog Friends.
I’ll bet my writing brain will come back when the school bus returns.
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