Twelve Years

Twelve years ago, after posting thoughts here and there on MySpace (yes, I’m that old), I started my first blog. I have had a number of them, mostly because I keep trying to rebrand myself when I feel I’m getting too whiny.

I was talking to a friend who recently published a book and she mentioned using some content from her blog in her book. Not to say I’ll do that, but it did make me think about how much I’ve written and how far I’ve come – or how much I’ve stayed exactly the same. So I went to that original blog and found my very first post. It was short and to the point and I can see how much I’m the same person now, plus six additional children and a house that is three times the size but somehow feels less messy even though I’m not sure my housekeeping skills have improved.

This is it. I hope to re-read most of what I’ve written in the last twelve years, if just to see what I can learn from myself and to remind myself of how far I have come.Screenshot_2019-05-17 Life as a Housewife(3)

Stagnant

I saw an illustration today that punched me in the gut. I saw it right after I was lamenting the fact that here we are, here I am, in the same place, doing the same things, day after day. Never moving forward, stuck. And then this reminder that where we are and where we want to be aren’t always far apart.

your comfort zone

 

I will admit that it is difficult to be a person convicted of my rightful place in my home but bubbling over with dreams and goals. Do I lay those things down for good? For five years? Ten? When I will likely have babies or small children in my home for twenty more years? Even now, I took advantage of relative quiet and a burst of inspiration to write and was immediately accosted by a four year old asking for an apple and a show on the computer that I’m using. I want to be this but I need to be that. So what do I do with my time instead? I waste it. I freely admit that. I feel like I’m just supervising children all day and constantly being interrupted every time I try to do something of any importance so I fiddle around scrolling Facebook and lately, playing games on my phone or the computer. If you can’t beat ’em, join ’em.

But there is always this feeling that the graphic above is truth. That it really isn’t very far from where I am to where I want to be so desperately. That it has more to do with stepping outside my comfort zone than it does with my daily life and its demands. Commitment is required and commitment is uncomfortable.

At present, I am faced daily with my aching and overweight body. I want to be gentle with myself, being less than four months postpartum. I want to mend my broken body the right way, rather than rush to lose weight and not actually fix anything like I’ve done in the past. But TIME and EFFORT and so many other things prevent me from digging my heels in and striving for the balance I would have to support so delicately.

I am challenged by a writing project I started recently and dozens of others I’ve started in the past, sitting in the documents folder of my desktop, waiting for inspiration and hard work. Waiting for commitment.

Two days ago, we drove into the country to drop our two oldest kids off at camp for a weekend retreat. As we drove past cattle farms and fields dotted with new calves, I talked about how much hard work farming must be; what a different lifestyle that would be. But really, all of us could stand to live in hard work because it makes rest so much sweeter. What I’m doing every day with all this idling is not rest, even when I tell myself that it is. I have stood by and watched as people around me have found an abundance in life because they chose to work hard. The hard truth is that hard work is just outside of my comfort zone. I’ve never had to work very hard for anything, if we’re being honest.

I use my “mother of many” status to excuse my behaviour. And maybe there are some things I just cannot do at this point in my life, hard work or not. But the truth is that I’m lazy most of the time and comfortable in it. But this kind of lifestyle leads only to being stagnant and that is a special kind of discomfort, an itch that cannot be scratched by anything other than hard work and commitment.

Tale of an unreliable blogger

Many years ago, I had a few small children who all napped every day. In fact, my oldest child took daily naps until she was five. This meant that for the first five years of my motherhood, I could rely on two to three hours every afternoon when my house was quiet and I could use the time to work on crafts or writing. Or, to be honest, play The Sims.

I am certain that if I looked at the various blogs I have written over the years, I would find a downward trend near the time when my daughter turned six. I was up to four kids, homeschooling and had two children (sometimes three) who wouldn’t nap in the afternoon. Those hours were now spent keeping them quiet enough so that the younger ones could sleep. If I was really on top of things, I used the time to get supper ready so we wouldn’t be stuck eating convenience food, eating out or eating very late at night.

The truth is, I have lots of “free time” every day. I spend most of it on my phone (ugh..yeah, I know) or sometimes watching Netflix. I spend the rest of my day on housework or taking care of the littlest kids and lately, as this pregnancy progresses, I try to have some down time in the afternoon for a rest or just to spend some time by myself.

I suppose I do have time to write but I am either too distracted to accomplish much or I feel uninspired so I don’t bother. I don’t want to write drivel about how many times someone pooped yesterday or the groceries I need to buy later. Those things are part of my daily life but writing about them is far behind me.

So, all that said, I apologize to those of you who actually read this but at the same time, feel that it’s completely okay for me to write when I feel like writing, rather than pushing myself to do it when I feel dry or tired.

I will likely write a separate post soon as a pregnancy update because things are constantly changing and stress is always threatening and I’m now about six weeks away from my due date. But for now, I confess my unreliability and ask for patience as I develop a rhythm (or lack thereof) to my writing.