Coming Home

The year prior to creating this Blog, I did not write. Through getting pregnant, all of pregnancy, and the weeks just after giving birth, I didn't write at all.

In my life, writing has always been a constant. I have always been one to chronicle thoughts, feelings, events...perhaps afraid that if I didn't, I would forget the importance of the moments. But as much as writing has been part of my life, so has chaos. And in a feeble attempt to wean myself from narcissism (ha!), I decided that I would no longer afford myself the outlet.

See, I have a tendency to get caught up. Life is meant to be lived, but for me, life was meant to be felt. I needed to savor it. The moment I realized I was in love, the first kiss, the confusion, the scent of something and the flood of emotion it could recall...these things were dissected, distorted, drawn out and displayed in my writing. Not only did it become obsessive and intense, it became a huge bloody bore. And there is absolutely nothing like looking back at a piece of writing, and wondering why you were lying to yourself. There is also nothing like looking back and realizing that you don't like yourself very much.

If you want to find someone who is entirely too self-important, self-loathing and overly dramatic, look to a writer.

An ex of mine once forbid me to write. She said that it "allowed me to get too caught up in things, and not move forward or see the big picture." It took a bit of growing up to see that she was right. I was abusing a form of art, and when I realized that I was going to be responsible for another person's life, I decided that going without writing would force me to live it, learn it, and appreciate it. The last thing I wanted to do was drag it out, over analyze, kick around and become so wrapped up in myself that I would continue to always be "in" my head.

I think that this time without writing was very constructive for me. Every day is not a constant turmoil of emotion and sentiment and imagined importance...it's not a show, and I don't need to go to great lengths to make it beautiful.

My son's first smiles in the morning...that is beautiful. And it is every day. The feeling of accomplishment when I finish working out is every day. The flirty smiles and silly sounds during The Boy's bath time are exciting every single day. And it doesn't matter that during that one moment at 4am when I had gotten less than two hours of sleep all night, I felt like I was going to lose my mind. It doesn't matter that every day it gets both harder and easier. It doesn't matter that in some moments I don't understand my life, my decisions, or why I ever thought I could be a good mother. None of these things define my life.

It's those moments...the happy ones. The smiles, the cooing, singing songs and acting silly. I have them now, every day. And I have learned that they will be there, even if I don't write a two page essay about how that one moment reminded me of the importance of my job as a mother, or reminded me just how much it breaks my heart to love someone so much. I have learned to live it, and to appreciate it, every single day.