I started this blog primarily for one reason. I wanted to have a place where I could record silly things the kids said or did, upload pictures, and capture life as a family of five. I wanted to have this sacred place primarily for one person.
I wanted there to be a place where she could come and read (or have read to her) the goings-ons of my life. She and I have always been close. Always. I've always thought of her as my best friend. She has always been the closest person to me. When I was worried or scared or acting way out of line for what have been numerous reasons over the course of my life - she was the one, single, solitary person who could talk me off the ledge - she could gently point out my shortcomings in a way that wasn't antagonizing or with the intent to hurt - but rather to teach. She could calm nerves, she could ease heartache - well, I think you could safely say she could do it all.
Things have changed for us. One reason is due to her stroke. Where we once could spend hours talking on the phone - we can't now. It's hard to understand words as she works so incredibly hard to regain her speech - and as a result, we need a third party to help out - to interpret, so to speak. So we're not able to have those one-on-one talks we used to have - for logistics alone.
There is another reason, though, that is none other than my fault. (Although, I don't think fault is really the right word.) Things are insanely crazy here. I don't begrudge it - I don't make excuses for it - it is what it is. Life with three children age five and under is hard. Crazy hard. And unless you've been a mom, who works a 40+ hour work week, trying to give her kids the best life possible, giving up everything of yourself for them, you can't understand. And you can't judge.
So I think that the gap between my mother and I would have occurred at this stage in our lives, my life, regardless of her health concerns.
Which, coming back to the title of this post, is why I started this blog. I have very few moments of quiet in my life. They occur at random, strange times. When I'm taking a few minutes for a lunch break from work. Very early in the morning when the kids are blessedly asleep. Very late at night (in the middle of the night) when I can't sleep.
It's then that I blog. It's then that I write. It's then that I try to put to text the antics of our life. Some of the posts are silly. Some are memories I want to recall. Some are random recipes - so I can have a set place saved where I can go find things.
Along the way I discovered something about myself. I like to write.
I like to have an outlet where I can pour my heart and soul out. I like to have a place where I can mourn my father. Miss my mother. It's helped tremendously in my family life to have a place where I can dump these thoughts, these memories - good and bad. Call it what you will - but this has become my own personal therapy.
Yes, I realize that I publish this out to the world wide web - I don't have anything to hide. It may be personal, but it is not private. (The private stuff - that still hasn't found an outlet yet.)
But it's come to my attention that there are those who think this blog is too much "about me." I've been accused of "not having lost anything." Of being too wrapped up in myself. I've been accused of basically being too self centered. Something I can't begin to understand - because if you've actually read these words, you'll see that I'm trying the very best I can to give everything I possibly have to everyone else.
And also, very interesting, because IT'S A BLOG ABOUT ME. It's a place for me to write. To record stories of my kids. To be a place for my mom to go and see and learn about her grandkids in the absence of being able to see them on a frequent basis (if at all.)
So if you are one of those readers who thinks that?
THEN DON'T READ THIS BLOG.
And don't judge. Until you've been in my shoes, until you've dealt with everything that I've been given over the last five years - you have no right to point fingers, to accuse, or to berate. It doesn't accomplish anything. The only purpose it serves is to hurt.