Wrong Way Around

So I homeschool, right? And I homebirthed, twice. And we homestead, sort-of. You might say I'm a homebody. You might expect that of me, you might think that's what I like best; after all, these are my lifestyle choices. But as it turns out, that's not exactly true for me. Most of my "mom friends" are stay-at-home moms. They seem content. They certainly seem happier than me. Maybe they're all on Prozac or Zoloft or whatever the latest generation of antidepressant is. Maybe I should be. But I'm not content. My kids piss me off frequently. I don't know if this is the right thing to do. And I know, beyond any doubt, that I want More out of my life. I even know some of what that looks like. But I can't see how to get there from here. My kids need me relentlessly. They are little, even the "big" one. They need, need, need, all the time. I am never "off." I hate my husband, not for doing anything especially wrong (which he sometimes does), not for being an insensitive jerk (which he sometimes is). I hate him because I resent him for not being my replacement. There is no way around this. Do I love my children? Hell fucking yes I love them, like stops-my-breath love them. Do I wish I hadn't had them? Don't be fucking stupid. But these constraints are real, and sometimes it just sucks.

After breaking my writing silence yesterday, and noticing how impressively ginormous was my writer's block, I have decided that it would probably be a good idea if I forced myself to write here daily, even if it's just two sentences of utter drivel. Hell, no one is reading this damn thing anyway, what difference does it make? I could say anything, who's going to see it? Sure, I secretly wish I could make a small living blogging, but how the hell could that happen when I go for more than a year without writing? Stupid. So I'm going to write crap into a vacuum and see how often I can manage to do it. Gah.

Once Upon A Time...

... there was a writer who became a mom. Then she became a mom again, and then again. Then a whole bunch of other shit happened and it seemed the writer disappeared. But the mom felt crazy without the writer, so she had to go looking for her. She looked in books, she looked in movies. She looked in her purse, her car, and her diaper bag. The mom couldn't find the writer anywhere, and without her she didn't quite know what to do with herself, or what to say. She kept looking. Eventually the mom found the writer, but she almost didn't recognize her, as she had been wandering penless and paperless for a really, really long time, and she was starving and thin (you might say paper thin) and exceedingly thirsty. In fact, at first the mom just saw a starving woman, and felt sorry for her, and offered her some water and a little bite to eat. But then, as the writer began to flesh out once again, the mom realized who she was. And so, the mom welcomed the writer back home, and sought to discover the ways in which she had gotten lost in the first place, in hopes that she wouldn't let it happen again...

I Just Don't Know.

So I haven't been blogging; if you know me, which I expect most of you do (otherwise how did you ever find me, right??), you know why. (Not to exclude you if you don't: I've started a natural grocery/coffee bar. Yes, in this economy. Yes, I am completely insane, but that is so not noteworthy anymore.) Every now and then, even with my lack of posting, I'll get a new comment on an old post (as just happened) and I'll think, I should go write something. However, I write so damn infrequently now that literally thousands of little word-children clamor to come out all at once, with such a ridiculous cacophony that I can't hear just one storyline and get a quick blurb out that's remotely coherent. So, I sigh, and mutter, and grouse, and don't write. Thus the title. I don't know what's going to come out, and I doubt I could figure out what to call it even after it's done, so I decided to not let that get in my way. Now here I am writing sheer drivel for the sake of posting, lest this blog become completely dead. Ah well. Perfectionism is for those who wish to avoid actually doing anything. (Ask me how I know.)
Needing to know what something will be before attempting to produce it-- now that sounds ridiculous, does it not? But I have done this my entire life, and I am experienced enough (note the avoidance of any reference to actual age there) by now to know that I am not alone. What is that about? Can you think of-- no, can you admit to a time when you've done this? Why did you do it? A need to be in control? Fear of failure/success? Fear of reprimand/repercussion(s)? Sometimes I think I fear not failure, but mediocrity. What if the writing doesn't suck, what if it's just blah? And of course, by extension, what if I am just blah? Say it ain't so! What if it serves no purpose, changes no one's life? What if-- dare I even type it-- no one ever reads it? Was it worth the effort, the overcoming of physical and mental and emotional obstacles to produce one tiny morsel of overly edited prose, for it to remain unread?

Thou Shalt Not Think on Mondays

Clover in the oregano, above. I set a goal for myself to blog every day, which I've been at least 80% successful with since setting it, not too bad. I also set a goal of writing one "green" blog each week, which hasn't happened yet, so I'm sitting down to do that now, but all I can think about is a scrap I had with a family member yesterday. As Byron Katie would point out, who is being more cruel to me, the person who hurt my feelings yesterday, or me, replaying the insults over and over in my head? Urgh.

Writer's block is a funny thing. I talk about greener living on a near-constant basis, but then I sit down to write a short blog and my monkey mind dashes hither, thither and yon, resisting the formation of so much as one sentence. I could write about laundry-- since getting off the electric dryer I've had revelations galore-- but it doesn't seem to want to happen. I could write about my ideas of revamping society to no longer be centered around commuting and the automobile, but the thoughts just won't gel. I give up!

All hail Mercury retrograde Mondays! Thou shalt not think today!