Tuesday, November 9, 2010
This is weird, I know. Lately I have had an uncontrollable urge to start writing again, and for some strange reason, to have my writing seen (although I'm not even certain that will happen here. I'll just think that it's happening and then I'll feel super accomplished and whatever).
So sometimes, depending on my mood, I'll probably write ridiculous anecdotes of my daily experiences and observations, and then sometimes I'll get all serious and write a poem or two. I'm fickle like that.
For me, the weird thing about having kids was that, at first, you are just so ENTRENCHED in it. You live, breathe, and emanate babies. I think was pregnant for, like, five years in a row and I'm not really a good pregnant person -- I was uncomfortable most of the time and I complained about it ALL of the time. My third pregnancy I was so miserable with varicose veins in my calves that I took to wearing knee-high support hose. Because I was pregnant in the middle of summer and Houston's heat is what I imagine volcanic lava to feel like, I would only wear shorts and then I would have on the knee-high support hose, and THEN I would stick Juicy couture tube socks over those to try to make myself look semi-cute (it didn't work). My best friend took to calling me "Hip Hop Socks."
Anyway, I had these three babies by C-section (bizarre in a totally different way, but I won't go into it here) and I became absolutely and totally obsessed with these little loaves of bologna with strangely twitching limbs. I would ogle them, fondle them, I think I wanted to physically inhale them. I desperately needed to chill the fuck out.
Which I have. Now that my kids are 8, 5, and 3, I practically neglect them. OK, not really, but sometimes I hide in my closet so they can't find me. Is that wrong?
And I finally feel like I have gotten my head above water again. Whereas once I was mainly a vessel for carrying babies, feeding babies, and of course, cleaning poop-covered babies (clothes and walls too!) -- I am now, GASP, a person again. I actually have thoughts and desires that are separate from my children's. And maybe that is why I am writing this blog. To reconnect with all that is in me, but that was put on hold for what feels like a very, very long time.
And truthfully, it's OK if no one reads it. I just feel so much better now that I am again finding my voice -- and I'm not talking about my, "stop asphyxiating your brother!" voice. The voice in this blog is the me part of me that was too swamped or too lost or too scared to show itself. And now it's not.