When I don’t have photos to rely on for blog fodder (I’m not sure our camera made it back from Second-Christmas last weekend), I feel compelled to let the world in on my thoughts, such as they are. Which might not be all that fun for you, but is somewhat cathartic for me.
I wanted to be a writer when I was young, and I had all the dramatic, fantastic stories swimming in my head about ghosts and time travel and parents dying (oh, God, I can’t even think of how horrible that would be) and so on. Heady stuff for a young kid, but I was consumed by the thought that I could write the Great American Novel, you know, for kids. I know now that my style of writing is not so much dramatic as academic, and that probably makes blog days without photos pretty boring for my audience (but it was good for all those papers I wrote in college). Also, while I was fascinated by stories about triumph through untold horror (mass destruction, abandonment, etc) when I was young, I would rather not read those stories now.
I think those kinds of stories played into my fears and hopes pretty well. I have always wanted to be somebody extraordinary, to find myself in extremely trying circumstances and be the girl who survived. Now, I want to be somebody extraordinary, but with much less drama, you know? I’d settle for my kids thinking I am their hero, for growing a successful business, and for doing good things for my community. I’d also like to adopt all the dogs in the world. But Tony won’t let me, even if I can give them love and save them from being beaten and left in the cold and starved, etc. Sigh. And the children! Starving in Africa! Abandoned by their parents who have AIDS and can’t raise them! Don’t get me started. I am a bleeding heart and I want to save the world.
I know that my story will be somewhat less sensational than that, but I will do a little and it will make a difference.
I had a dream the other night, though, in which I travelled back in time and I really missed my family. Also, I kept making all these blunders that got me in trouble because I wasn’t used to it being 1950 or whatever, and the social norms were different, and it sucked. So, no more stories about time travel. Maybe I should limit my TV-viewing to kid’s movies. Except that Charles and I watched Toy Story 3 on Monday and I bawled like crazy at the end. You know, where Andy says goodbye to his favorite toys because he is going to college? And then I grabbed Charles and implored him to take me with him to college and be my little boy forever and Charles was scared. Sigh.
Do you ever think that if you had known how much your parents loved you when you were a child that you would have behaved so much differently? Well, maybe not that much differently, but some.
In the meantime, I am trying to make Charles understand that it is precisely because I love him so much that he has to go to bed at a reasonable hour. And also, I love this new baby, too, so he can’t climb on me. He has become so clingy, I fear that it will be a back-achingly long tax season this year.
This morning proved the exception, however, when my brother came over to babysit for an hour while I went to Rotary (Tony is out of town at a conference today). Charles immediately climbed down from my arms and ran to Leland to give him a hug. I then suggested that Uncle Leland might make him eggs, and he said “Daaah! Ee-an ehzzzz!” Which means, of course, “Yeah! Leland eggs!” And then the little stinker turned to me and said “Bye mommy!” After spending the previous 45 minutes crying and whining in my arms (except when I put him down to brush my teeth, and then it was more like shrieking and wailing). Little stinker.
So, who wants a crazy pregnant lady and a Terrible Two-Year-Old to come visit them this tax season? Huh? Bueller?