How does that talking heads song go? “How did I get here?” I’ve been asking myself that a lot lately. How did I get here? While I love my life, I can’t help but wondering how I ended up in this spot right here. At what point in my life did I wake up and say, “It’s time to stop partying, having fun, sleeping around, and being irresponsible, and time to start changing diapers, going to bed at 7pm, spend my days rushing around, and grow up?” Really at what point do people cognitively stop and say, I want to turn my whole life around?
I’m suffering some sort of writers block lately. The things that are bottling up inside of me are things I don’t feel comfortable writing about. Sharing my entire life with those around me is sometimes frightening. Sometimes I find myself feeling limited and restricted. This makes it hard to write freely. With husbands, parents, aunts and uncles reading, there are things I feel like I must keep to myself. I’ve already suffered a blow out with a family member as a result of things I’ve written. While he and I no longer talk I still watch my writing because I have never for a second believed that he stopped reading.
There have been thousands of times I’ve wanted to write about my birth father, but I refrain because of the anger that usual erupts from it. I’ve wanted to write about past loves or heartaches or current lingerings in my mind, but I don’t because what husband wants to read that? There are times I’ve wanted to write about some of the fun I had when I was younger with the boys, but what dad wants to read that? Times I want to write about disagreements I have at work, or in my daily life, you know, have a sounding board for the comings and goings of my actual life, but I don’t, because, I know better.
These limits leave me with blogging about my kids, and little things like my weigh, or clothes or what not. I can’t blog about religion or politics because I feel too naive to discuss either. I will never claim to have a vast knowledge in those subjects, well, in many subjects for that matter. I don’t often write about my kids, because while I realize a lot of moms come here to read, I also realize there is only so much, “oh look who crawled, walked, back talked, smeared poop on the walls today” talk people can take. Since so many blogs seem to be filled with that lately I try and moderate how often I do. Call it my lame attempt at standing out.
I’ve found myself being so nostalgic lately. Missing old friends, and habits, and the freedom and fun of being 16. I wouldn’t trade my life in for anything but I miss those days. I was someone different then. Poetic, loud, boisterous, mischievous, unaffected, unaffraid. I may have always been depressed and I may have always had large swings, but back then I handled them differently. I wrote poetry, or stories, or letters to myself. I wrote out the sadness and soaked up the music I love. I listened to my songs on full blast, letting the words and beats over take my entire being. I had the time to put a CD on repeat and let a song wash over me 53 times in a row. But I always came out faster, and stayed out longer.
Now, I keep the music down so I don’t hurt little ears. I don’t have time to listen to a song all the way through let alone 53 times in a row. My days are now filled with raising two young minds. Molding them so they don’t turn out like me. And if they do, giving them the tools to handle it better then I do.
I miss having time. Time to write a whole blog on one train of thought rather then write, then jump up to clean purposely spilled water, then write, then run to the pantry to put a toddler in time out for dumping expensive creamer on my floor. I can’t keep a train of thought to save my life. I miss the time to lock the door, blare my music and dance naked in the shower for as long as I want. I miss so much.
I wouldn’t give up my kids for anything. Does that mean that I have to stop missing the other things though? I don’t want to be perceived as someone unhappy with their married family life. Because I’m not. I only wish I could mingle the two. Create some mish mash of that old free spirited girl with the boring mom I’ve become.
I want to laugh about my trip to the store with Ginger that yielded nothing but donuts, bread, pastry, and canned cheese dip. But instead of laughing I stare nervously at the things I brought home and think about the money wasted and how that could have just bought more milk, or meat, or vegetables. I want to spend hours oggling a tiny baby shimmying and wiggling across a hard wood floor, but as I do, I’m thinking, well gee, you really should be taking a shower right now, or doing dishes, or perhaps sweeping the floor one more fucking time today.
Do you have a happy medium. A place where your youth meets your present? How do you balance the two? Do you simply smother that 16 year old voice in your head begging to party and rock out, or do you let her come out and shine? How do you juggle the fun with the parenting? How do you let yourself enjoy small things with out feeling like a guilty mom taking time away from important things?
Am I alone in this? Do we all miss the selves of yesteryear? Do we all miss our tight jeans, and ass shaking walk, and first kisses, and long tasty nights with men? Do we all miss blowing money on crazy food and drinks rather then sensible things?
Like I said, I’m in a writers block. There are so many good stories in this head, they are just stories I don’t think I will ever share. Trying to pic good stories out of my every day life, just reminds me how…mundane I am.