A day late and a blog post short

So I realize I’m about ten years too late to the blogging party.  I’ve had lots of good reasons to hesitate.  First of all, I’ve had privacy concerns.  After spending the last 9 years involved with kids who didn’t belong to me (first as a house-mom in a boys home and then as a foster mom) there is a long list of the things you can’t say about your life.  Second of all, I’m indecisive.  This is a minor problem when Brian is pressuring me about what I want for my birthday or where we should go for dinner (don’t even ask how many of those tiny sample cans of paint I made that man slap on the kitchen wall).  This is a major problem when it comes to committing to writing about my life.  I know how quickly my mind can change and then I am thoroughly embarrassed by my own thoughts.  I am the girl who kept a journal for all of two months and then ended up ripping the pages out and tossing them when I realized THIS was the material I was documenting for posterity.

But I’m over it.  Okay, I’m not really over it at all.  I’m still agonizing about how to begin to document my thoughts and the general insanity that is my life these days.  It’s just that now I am suffering from. . . well, I don’t know that there’s a name for it.  You know that feeling you have when you’re in a group discussion and you think of this really important question or this revolutionary thought, but the moment never comes to share it?  You feel all deflated and find yourself sharing your deep thoughts with nobody in particular while you drive back home just so it doesn’t stay stuffed inside you for all eternity.  Well, that’s kind of what I feel like all the time.  I adore my life at home with four small kids, but I’m afraid The Dog is the main beneficiary of all my grown-up thoughts because at least he let’s me finish before bothering me about having to go to the bathroom.  Most of the time.  I think I was born without an inner monologue.  I do all my processing out loud and without someone to share it with I find myself intellectually constipated.  (My husband will say he knew I couldn’t even do one post without some kind of poop reference.  I’d like to debate him about that, but clearly he knows me too well.)

I’m excited to share what I’ve learned and what I’m learning from this unique life I’ve been given.  And if nobody hears it, at least maybe I won’t mumble to myself quite so much.  And I think that will be for the better.  For all of us.