Here are some pictures of my kiddos from this morning:
I know—it’s crazy how they look absolutely *nothing* alike, right?! Weird.
Back to school again. But before this, there was …
The end of school. Summertime. Vacation with family. Vacation with friends. There was The Ex and The Girlfriend having their baby (and my children gaining a half-sibling). There was major adjustment, for all of us. There was Avery’s 10th birthday. There were girls’ nights out and there were concerts that had me grinning for days. There was a three-day music festival on the beach. There was love and romance and trying to figure out the relationship stuff … yet again. There was my annual sailing trip to Canada, after much (much, much, MUCH) effort and gnashing of teeth and making of arrangements and calling in of favors that surely must have rivaled the planning of a land war in Asia (and as a reward, there were beautiful days and blue skies and calm waters and sweet young boys and Tommy Green, Jr. and time spent with now-dear friends and yes, there was more romance). There was the arrival of puberty in the house, unexpected and much more of an emotional watershed for me than it was for the amazing kiddo who actually went through it. There was The Ex in trial out-of-state and my forced need to do some real, true single parenting sans co-parent for awhile (and the resulting realization for both of us, I think, that we need each other to make this thing work). There was football beginning again and there was back-to-school shopping and there was a new school begun today complete with lockers and bells and complicated schedules and hello-you-are-most-definitely-no-longer-in-elementary-school-anymore-it’s-time-to-grow-up.
There was laughter and there were tears and there was joy and pain and happiness and sorrow. There was Life. Constantly and amazingly and incessantly.
I could’ve written about any of it. I wanted to write about much of it.
I didn’t write about any of it. (Obviously.)
There are a lot of reasons for that, I suppose—lack of time, a sudden desire for privacy (for me and for my children and for others in my life who deserve it), some strange new-found hesitation to expose my psyche to the ether (perhaps spurred by the realization that there were people … people in my real life … who were reading and who were knowing things that I wasn’t sure I was ok with them knowing).
The purest truth, though, is probably that although I’ve wanted to write, I haven’t needed to write. The catharsis is somewhat done. Life is more or less normal—at least, my new version of normal. Time and change and adaptation and a whole truckload of what-can-you-do? My kids are growing up in front of my eyes and I swear that most days I can watch myself age in the mirror and in general I think I’m just far less inclined to waste time being angry or wistful or hopeful or overly concerned about anything except this moment right here and now. And by the time I sit down to write about the singular moment? It’s gone.
I haven’t written here in four months (almost). There have been times I’ve thought I was done. I’ve considered shuttering the blog. The idea of catching up, of backfilling the diary function, of re-opening wounds that have finally begun to scar … it’s just seemed too daunting. And I would have, except that I miss it. The writing and the feedback and the connection and the chronicling of whatever small, specific journey I’m on? I miss it.
Things are going well here. Crazy and chaotic. Joyful and bittersweet. Complicated yet simple. The good and the bad and the everything in between—they compile to form my unforeseen life, yet somehow they are just exactly right. We started school today. A new year and the next step. Everyone had a good day. I hope you did, too.