On Beards

I have many thoughts about beards.  It's rare day that my husband isn't sporting some sort of facial hair.  Beards, sideburns, goatees and Van Dykes are "in my face" all the time.

And I love it.

When my husband is clean shaven, he's really cute and I still adore him endlessly because he's my Dustin, but I REALLY like it when he's sporting some facial hair. It's darned sexy.

I have these thoughts about my husband and his beard off and on all the time, but just now, I was watching a music video where two men had scruffy beards. This set a train of thought in motion this morning and I realized one of the reasons I like facial hair so much is it's so definitively MAN.  It's something I'll never have.  Perhaps it sounds silly, but the fact that I'll always have a soft face with a delicate jaw and my husband has to make a daily choice to shave or deal with the resulting scruff (YUM!) on his strong jaw stirs the same feelings I wrote about here.  I love that.  Maybe that makes no sense to anyone but me, but facial hair is just so... quintessentially man.  

Don't confuse my love of beards with a love of all forms of facial hair.  Check out this hilarious website I discovered as I pondered this post.  The La Souvarov... NOT my favorite style.  In fact, a few months ago, about thirty or so minutes before Dustin and I were supposed to go to dinner with a big group of friends, he walked out of the bathroom with this face-do:

My friend, when commenting on this pic, said, "I am glad that we have the "stache" documented for all to remember the legendary way to really get under Clancy's skin!"

I was LIVID that Dustin shaved this into his face mere minutes before we went out with friends.  I wouldn't even look at him.

I did get over it, eventually.  I had to beg divine intervention to do so.  Seriously.  I prayed that I could let it go and just have a great night out.  God is merciful and kind and I actually felt an immediate lightening of my anger after my petition.

I know.  I'm crazy.  Maybe I was PMSy?  That sounds like a good excuse.

The point is that not all facial hair is created equal, in my opinion.  I love me a Van Dyke or a nice scruff-beard with a clean neck.  I don't love the neck hair.  Things need to be tidy.  I even love when Dust goes a little crazy and shave in some mutton chops.  When he is clean-shaven, I like him to leave sideburns.

I try very hard not to dictate what he shaves, but it's really hard for me to keep my mouth shut (or pucker up for a kiss) when I don't like his current choice of face-do.

Aren't you glad you aren't my husband?  Poor guy.

:-)

This ends my thoughts on beards.

Flow

Self-awareness, as everything else in life, has an current, a flow. 
At times, all rapids and whirlpools, it carries me faster than I'd choose on my own and often through frightening and dangerous waters.  If I let go of my fear, the ride can be exhilerating, though I may come out crying at the end. 

As all rapids eventually find a calm, so do my own personal rivers of thought. 

Those calm places often look placid and smooth, yet upon submersion I find that the current is stronger than I realized. It is then I am faced with a choice; tread water, swim hard or relax and float and let the current carry me where it may. 

There are other times where I stand on the shore and watch the current and wonder at the hinting surface-nuances of the more powerful forces below.  I know there are things I'm not seeing or feeling because I choose to stay out of the water. 

And there are other times where I walk away from the water all together. 

But I know I'll always come back.

Best Laid Plans

Some days don't go how you expect.


Despite actually planning out every meal this week on Sunday night, and despite grocery shopping for all the food for said meals, and despite mapping out the goings-on of the past two days in my head, I still found myself scrambling at the dinner hour, both yesterday and today.

This is nearly unheard of for me, this planning and mapping, and yet I still managed to scramble at dinnertime, just like I do every night.

This week my theme has been inadequacy. I've been chock full, bursting at the seams, with self-deprecating thoughts and feelings. In fact, sometimes my seams did burst. Into tears. Big ones.  Dripping-off-your-chin kind of tears.  It hasn't been pretty.

I felt those ugly, dark feelings churning as I considered the scramble, despite my planning.  I recognized the descent I would shortly make into self-pity and disgust. 

And then, magically, I stopped.  The black cloud dissipated with a thought.  There was something magical in today and that was using some of my gifts to help someone I love.  I was simply a listening ear and a few words of advice, but it felt appreciated.  And in serving, I felt fulfilled. 

Plans were never my strong point anyway.

Missing Manic Monday: Preview

Sorry I've not been giving a preview of these words on Fridays.  I keep forgetting.  I've been going out of town a lot and when do we leave?  On Fridays.  I was sorely tempted to pick a different word today when I saw preview... click on the next word until I found one I felt like writing about.  But that was the whole point of using the random word generator... randomness.  The thing I liked about Mo's Manic Monday was I had to figure out how to incorporate whatever word he came up with into my blog post.  Not pick a word I felt like writing about and go from there.  So, I kept preview.

Is it just me or does going out of town stress you out?  Here is my normal modus operandi when I'm preparing to go out of town:

• Think about all the packing I need to do. (even if "all the packing" is not very much packing)
• Think about it some more.
• Think about how I want my house clean because who wants to come home to a messy house?
• Friday morning rolls around and I think some more about how I want things clean and what I need to do.
• Do all the laundry I have piled up.  For some reason, I feel compelled to have completely empty laundry baskets when I leave town.  Although in recent weeks, this has changed because of our new bathroom in the basement.  You see, it's half bathroom, half laundry room, complete with a five foot folding countertop.  It's amazing!  I am suddenly the Laundress Queen Extraordinaire and I do my laundry, folded and put away ALL.  THE.  TIME.  It's simply amazing what a difference a beautiful space does to your desire, not to mention functionality, of keeping it in order.  
• Think about how I need to clean out the car before we leave, because who wants to travel in a messy car?  
• Get stressed out by all the things I need to.
• "Rest" from all the thinking via brain-check-out, courtesy of the internet.
• Waste too much time online and finally pull myself away. 
• Mentally kick myself because I've wasted so much time and I have so much to do.
• Run around like a crazy person trying to get ready.  This stage involves a lot of sweaty armpits and may or may not involve *actually* cleaning the car and my house, depending on just how much time got wasted on the internet.  (Yes, I just said sweaty armpits on my blog.  Uncensored.)
• Leave at least one hour later than I wanted to. 
• More metal butt-kicking.
• Fall asleep in car, conditions pending.  *This final step has temporarily been bumped from "pending" to "omitted" thanks to the recent addition of one Brynja Leigh to our family.  :o)

 Do you see why I get stressed out about leaving town? 

For those of you who may be shaking your head in disbelief at my self-sabotaging ways (myself included), I would like to report that, while this has been my *normal* M.O. for most of my life (except the internet part... that particular distraction only showed up in the last five years or less), I am slowly changing my ways.  The old Clancy was so dependably late.  It was just ridiculous.  And, thus, the old Clancy would mentally rip herself to ribbons.  The inner critic had a heyday between the time-wasting, messy house, messy car, piles of laundry, and extreme lateness to top it all off.  It was a Self-Deprecation Party of epics proportions. 

But.

The new Clancy (which is actually still the old Clancy, but a Clancy that is trying everyday to improve herself in small ways and learning to love herself unconditionally regardless of her apparent successes or failures) has, for the last few out-of-town excursions, been ready at a decent time with, at minimum, a partially clean house, or a house at a higher level of clean than she started the day with. 

This last Friday, I managed to be ready by about 4:00, which was the time we were slotted to leave.  We didn't leave until about 6:00, but this was, in fact, due to Big O Tires and not due to Clancy.  We took our car in for new tires, an alignment and a replacement of "sway bar bushings" (whatever those are) and ended up having to replace the "inner tie rods" as well.  So, an extra $200 and an additional two hours, we left feeling much safer on our journey to the City of Salt. 

I'm so proud of me.  :-)

Bounce

My thoughts are bouncy right now.  I'm sitting at the computer at 12:27am and I'm reading various items while I listen to the washer and the dryer do their thing.  I can't type fast enough. I'm having thoughts again.  Thoughts that I want to share.  Thoughts that I want to scribble out with my swirly handwriting.  But I'll type instead.

Does anyone even read this anymore?  I feel like I've forgotten how to blog.

When I die I want to be buried in a pine box.  Like, a homemade one.  I don't want thousands of dollars spent on my coffin.  Just a simple pine box.  Or cremation.  That's ok with me.

I dislike cooking bacon.  Do you know why?  Because I can't stand my house to smell like bacon.  And I can't stand my hair to smell like bacon.  And let's not forget my clothes.  I don't like my clothes to smell like bacon.  Bacon tastes good.  But the smell clings like the dickens.   

I have a smell thing.  I can't stand my hands to smell like food, unless it's cilantro.  I love cilantro.

Today I put on my blue shirt.  I love the color of this shirt.  

 When I put it on, I smelled the most wonderful smell!  I was in heaven.  I kept sniffing myself (well, my shirt, really) all day and wondered why I smelled so darned good. 

Later I figured out that I wore this shirt last Friday.  I had gone to the mall and tried a tester of perfume at The Gap.  Guess what?  I want that perfume.  Bad.

I am not good at mailing things.  Just so you know.

Sometimes I want to die when people come to my house.  I get so self conscious about every imperfection.  If ever anyone goes into my basement, I always ask them before they go down if they will still be my friend if they see how messy and crazy my basement is.  Silly?  Yes.  And there's some sarcasm in the question... but mostly it's a valid fear. 

My aim is to have a yard sale on Saturday.  I'm excited and anxious about it.

I don't like planning birthday parties for my kids.  The hardest part for me is getting out the invitations.  I'm really not very good at this facet of parenthood.  But that's ok with me.  I'm good at the ones that are more important, I think.

I love doing laundry.  Don't let me fool you if ever I'm complaining about it.  It's very possible that it's my favorite household chore. 

I'm trying some generic diapers tonight.  Keep your fingers crossed for me and Miss B.

Speaking of Miss B, baby Brynja is precious.  She laughed last Thursday and Friday nights.  I told Mac about it when she did it the first time and he went on and on about how he just couldn't believe it.  How she's growing up so fast.  His face showed every emotion and he said, "That just makes me want to cry!" and I could see the tears just under the surface.  What a sweet, tender boy.  How many almost-ten-year-olds would be so thrilled and emotional about their baby sister laughing for the first time?

I love my life and my bouncy late-night thoughts.

New Life

This morning, as sleep was walking that precarious line of hanging on and sloughing off of my shrouded mind, I realized I had hands on my belly. I was laying on my back and must have been for some time because, as I was slowly waking up, I realized that my back was hurting me and I needed to move. I didn't want to though. While I was sleeping, my husband was laying there, hands on my tummy, feeling our baby move under my skin. I didn't want to disturb the moment.

Realizing after a few minutes that there seemed to be no movement in utero to disturb, I rolled onto my side. Dustin's hands remained on my belly waiting for more fetal acrobatics. I continued drifting in and out of sleep and, after an unknown quantity of time, Dustin got up to get ready for work. After he showered, he came back in our room and found me a little more coherent.

"I was playing with the baby while you were asleep," he informed me.

I responded, "I noticed your hands on my belly as I was waking up, but I didn't feel the baby moving at all. Was it actually moving?"

"Oh yeah! Totally!" he replied enthusiastically. "It would kick and I'd give a little push back. I'd feel a little limb and bounce it off my hand. It moved a lot and for a long time. The baby and I were having fun!"

Weird how I could be so asleep to not even notice any of that going on. But as I lay there thinking after he walked away, I was very grateful that I stayed asleep through it all. He got his own time "with the baby" as I was lost to the waking world.

A few minutes later, Ella walked in the room. She had a bad dream for the second morning in a row. Comforting words were said and she climbed in bed next to me filling Dustin's vacated spot. We lay there a few minutes and suddenly the baby got very tiny hiccups. I took Ella's hands and, placing them over the rhythmic hiccup-zone, told her of the baby's condition.

She got very excited as she felt the little repetitive jolts. "I can FEEL it, Mom!" she whispered enthusiastically. Suddenly, the baby decided it was awake and ready to roll around. The big sister thrilled at the various kicks and motions she felt. Swells of miniature body parts protruded and she informed me of every action. She laughed out loud several times. She asked what she was feeling... "Was that it's head? Is that it's leg? How does it make that bump stick out? What was that little bump?"

"I don't know Ella," I replied. "I wonder the same things all the time and I can never quite imagine the little person that can make all that movement simultaneously!"

As we lay there, I told her that her daddy was "playing" with the baby this morning while I was sleeping. She laughed. I suddenly realized that she, being my only daughter thus far, (March will tell if she is my only daughter ever) would one day, in all probability, get to experience this very thing, but from her own body, not just feeling it through her mother. I told her this, that one day she could feel this too but feel it all the time, every day as a new life develops into a whole, and very tiny human being.

I marveled, as I have time and time before, at the wonder of being a woman. This is a precious time, a wonderful gift that my body can give. I love feeling those jolts of a new life inside of me. Dustin can feel it from the outside as he lays there in dark, but OH!, the joy I experience with each little tap or roll from within! It is a wonder, a marvel and a miracle.

And with that thought, I say again... I love being a woman.

Thoughts and Events

So, my blogging career, which once served me such delicious bites of verbal release, has taken a nose-dive. And I'm fine with that, mostly.

I was reading through some old posts a few weeks ago and I got all teary-eyed remembering how much I always gained from my verbose self-expression on these empty white boxes we call, "New Posts". I loved to conjure a story from nothing. I loved to express my feelings. I loved to tell some event in some creative or whimsical way. I loved to make myself laugh. (I always hoped I was making other people laugh too, but I was always laughing enough at myself to be satisfied... regardless of the state of other people's chuckle-meter) I loved COMMENTS!!! (I still love comments, but let's be honest here, Clancy... you have to POST to have COMMENTS.) I loved to see another follower show up on my sidebar. I loved to see that people wanted to read what I was saying, as shocking as that was sometimes.

And now... I draw blank after blank. And I'm ok with that... mostly. I keep saying mostly because I feel like I'm missing something. I feel like I've lost a friend. But, I also have realized that there are times and places for everything in life and my blog has taken a back burner to several things in my life.

I spend much of my daily life homeschooling my son. It is going well, I think, and I think it has been so good for him. I think he is retaining some of the innocence of youth that might otherwise be taken preemptively in this fast-paced world. He is such a sweet kid, despite how some days I feel like he might be the death of me. Although, as he is maturing those days are becoming more and more rare. He is growing up and I couldn't be more proud of the young man he is turning into. His latest thing is to sit with the "grownups" while we are talking. He is happy to just listen to adults talk. I must admit that I was the same when I was a child. Sometimes it is aggravating, but how can I get frustrated with him when he is simply being me? (sometimes that's why I get frustrated with him, I think...) He says big things that often take me by surprise.

In science we have been talking about solutions: solutes and solvents. It has been fun for me to go through all this with him as I often learn something new or simply relearn a forgotten thing. In today's lesson we learned about saturation of a solvent and how temperature of the solvent can affect the solubility and therefore the saturation point.

On his lesson assessment there was a question that had a graph to the side showing solubility and temperature of the solvent. The question asked, "What can we conclude from this graph?" We read the choices together... "A." I said, "Decreasing temperature increased the solubility for all three substances."

"No," he said. "Not that one."

"B." I read. "Increasing volume increases solubility for all three substances."

In all seriousness and without missing a beat, he said, "Pantene will increase your volume!" He was so proud of himself that he knew that! I was so taken off guard by his use of the term 'volume', especially because it was verbatum from a TV ad, or more likely, straight off the Pantene bottle in our shower that I burst out laughing! Looking slightly abashed, he asked what was so funny. I schooled my face back into seriousness and told him that clever advertisers say that Pantene will make your hair look more full, or have "volume". I then explained what they meant by the term 'volume' on his science assessment. He laughed a little and I told him how smart he was and what a good memory he has and we moved on.

I had to record that one. Rohan still says adorable things all the time because he's only four. Ella still says cute things too off and on... or simply funny things that she thinks is fact. Mac now says smart things all the time (sometimes that would be brainy-smart, other times that would be sassy-smart...) and is getting old enough that he doesn't say very many "cute" things anymore. But today, he was cute, precocious and without guile. I love that child of mine and I had to record some cuteness while I still can.

So... that is one thing that my blog has taken a back burner to. Homeschooling. A very large chunk of my time each day is devoted to that awesome, frustrating, incredible, wonderful and cumbersome tservice that I am blessed to be able to offer to my son. I think some people don't approve of my choice to homeschool. I have discovered this disapproval comes across in many interesting and subtle varieties. Little looks people give me, little things they say. I honestly don't care who approves and who doesn't, but it's interesting to observe people. What they think they are keeping to themselves is really glaringly obvious to me. I just laugh to myself and think of the subtle differences I can see in my son and I know I'm doing the right thing.

Pregnancy must be another thing that blogging sits behind. Seems like it should be no big thing. Lots of people blog just fine while pregnant. But not me, apparently.

I'm 24 weeks now. I realized that my last post about being irritated by questions about my baby bump was a little harsh. I went to New Moon with some girlfriends and one of them that I didn't know super well said, "I read your blog and so I know I shouldn't ask you about your belly."

Crap!

Not true. If you see me, feel free to ask, folks. I was particularly irriatated that day and the people I spoke of just didn't seem to really care... it just seemed like they were making idle conversation. (Which may be untrue. That conclusion may simply have been the filter of my crabby, bugged mood.) Anyway, if you see me, don't be afraid of me scratching your eyes out if you ask me about my baby! I will be nice. I promise. If you see me glaze over and step out of my body, know that I'm having an wool-blanket-itchy-I-can't-stand-to-be-in-my-skin day. It's not you. It's me.

So... I had more thoughts, but they have recently checked out and this brain is now vacant. Just thought I'd update a little with a few thoughts and happenings. I am still alive and breathing... just doing so while almost completely ignoring my blog.

And now, this sleepy, blog-ignoring girl is going to bed. Goodnight.

To Be A Woman

I realize it's Friday and, historically speaking, I should be doing a Fabulous Five post, but I've had a thought rolling around in my quiet brain for a few weeks and I didn't even realize it until today. It's remained an unconscious thought until this morning when it suddenly forced it's way through to the forefront of my mind and conjured itself into a blog essay before my eyes. (well, my mind's eye)

(To preface my thoughts I'll say that I've never really considered myself much of a feminist, but I do believe that women are absolutely capable of doing anything they decide to. This post is not intended as an argument for the role of a woman, it is simply my thoughts on my own role as a woman. I'll just leave it at that.)


One morning, a few months ago, I stood next to Dustin in front of the mirror in the bathroom. I think we were both brushing our teeth. My thoughts for the previous several days had dwelt on men and women, their roles, their differences. You see, I had just read a book that was set in a different time when men had to be warriors. A time when they had to protect and defend their wives, families and country. Dustin and I were both bare shouldered because it was morning and we weren't dressed yet. As we were standing next to each other in front of the mirror, I couldn't help but observe the differences between he and I, a man and a woman. His shoulders are broad, well-muscled and strong. While I am a fairly strong woman, I relished the study of his shoulder versus mine. I looked so small next to him. So delicate. So... feminine.

As I marveled at these differences, I made him turn sideways next to me and I said to him, "Look at that! Look how small my shoulder is compared to yours. I bet you could fit three of my little shoulders into one of yours!" He laughed, his mouth full of toothpaste, but didn't say anything.

Did this difference bother me? No! Did I wish for his shoulders, his musculature, in myself? Of course not! To wish such a thing would, in my opinion, be a physical obscurity. I like my small frame and the role that it plays in my life. His broad shoulders could be a warrior's shoulders, if the need arose. They could defend his wife and his children. These thoughts stirred up feelings of security and safety in my heart.

I have mentioned on this blog that a friend of ours recently passed away, leaving behind a wife and two small children. As we went to the viewing and hugged each of his family members who attended his body, his newly-widowed wife hugged me fiercely and, through her sobs, conveyed to me that this just isn't fair! She didn't want this. This wasn't supposed to happen. They were supposed to grow old together! She isn't supposed to be a widow at 28 years old! Her feelings of confusion, anger, heartache and sorrow washed over me. All I could do was sob and tell her I'm sorry.

I'm sure anyone in my situation would've done just as I did, hug her back and cry with her, but as I did, I couldn't stop the images of myself, just three years older than she, mourning the loss of my own husband. What would that be like? I pray I will never know.

The weeks have passed since that day but the memory of it has not left me, nor have the feelings and questions evoked by the event. As time moves on and these thoughts hover just outside my awareness, I have been filled with gratitude for the roles we play, gratitude for my husband and his willingness to provide for his family, his willingness to love and cherish me, his willingness to be a man. Not only willingness, but fervor. Ferocity. Total dedication and devotion. I know that as long as he is here on earth, by my side, I will never have to worry about our bills being paid. He is our provider and my husband and he feels validated by these roles.

If tragedy were to strike my family, I know I could take care of myself and that I could provide for my family if the need arose. I've always known that and I have confidence in myself and my capabilities. That being said, the events of the last few weeks made me realize that I cherish being taken care of. It is a privilege and a blessing. I treasure that my husband's main desire is to provide for his wife and his children. I honor the fact that he is a man who wants to be the breadwinner. I relish my role of being a feminine woman who knows she can take care of herself, but allows her husband the honor of doing it for her.

And, for me in my life, knowing my capabilities and allowing myself to be dependent on my husband despite what I can do is my definition of being a woman.

I Really Don't Know

It's been so weird for me lately. I look at the "New Post" button on my blog and I just stare at it. I don't understand why I have so little to say.

Now I just typed that sentence and I sat there and stared at it wondering, what do I say next? I used to have blog-post ideas pop into my head forty-three-thousand times per day. I had to keep a notebook with me and jot them down so I wouldn't forget. Now, I got nothin'. I don't know what I think of all day everyday, but whatever it is goes in and out of my head like water on sand.

Why am I so quiet? I don't understand it, but it is what it is. Cycles. Time and season and all that stuff...

Random Thoughts on a Tuesday Morning

It is Tuesday, isn't it? I'm losing track...

- Yesterday I fell asleep at about 5:00 and slept for about an hour and a half. It was blissful, and that's coming from a girl who normally abhors taking naps, but it did make it very hard to fall asleep at bedtime so I watched a movie.

- Don't watch the moving "Knowing" if you want to fall asleep peacefully. Especially if your husband is working out of town. I missed his reassuring presence in my freaked out state.

- I am so glad Dustin doesn't work out of town all the time anymore. I feel incomplete when he is not home. I am such a lucky girl to love my husband so much. (and to have him love me as much in return and miss me too.)

- I suck at watering the lawn. Dustin is good at it. Another reason he's awesome to have around.

- My [clean] laundry pile is rather large again. I do great, and then I don't. I still like me, even when I don't do great at keeping up on laundry. Isn't that awesome?

- Getting dressed everyday can be frustrating when you're feeling vain and you are sick of your clothes.

- My favorite pants, the Big Star jeans, are nearing the end of their life. They are the comfiest, cutest jeans and their old-age/near-deathness makes me sad.

- I love Cheerios.

- I love cheese.

- I love nectarines.

- I love it when I make dinner.

- I don't like it when I don't make dinner. Last night we had cereal for dinner. That's a sure sign that Dustin is out of town.

- I don't want to be a landlord anymore.

- I didn't make my bed this morning, and that just makes me laugh.

- My dryer just shut off and I sat down here at the computer when I started the dryer. That means I've been sitting here WAY too long.

- My dryer is quiet and I STILL appreciate that. Never take your quiet dryer for granted.

- I need new sheets. My favorite super-soft cotton ones now have a hole in them because they were so threadbare that I put my little toes right through them in the night. That makes me sad.

- But new sheets will make me happy.

- Air conditioning is really really spectacular. Really.

The end.

You Speaka My Language?.

(I've started and erased this post about ten times now. It's not going so hot. I'll try to get through it...)

Guitars are wonderful instruments. So mobile. So versatile. So peaceful (sometimes). Especially if they're in tune. I got to mess around with a friend on the guitar recently (mostly as the singer) and it was fun... even if the guitar was out of tune. I don't know if this person or their loved ones read this blog, but if you do, know that it is no slight to the guitar player when I say that about the out-of-tuneness of said guitar. Guitars pull out of tune when you raise them a whole step. The strings don't like it. They're tighter and they want to go back to were they are comfortable, a whole step lower. Playing them outside in the cold air doesn't help keep the strings tuned up pretty either. I know that and that's ok. Are we good? Good.

(The urge to erase this post is strong right now. I'm not going to. That might be a mistake, but I shall carry on, nonetheless.)

As I sat there jamming with the guitarist, we were both supremely frustrated. Neither of us knew the same songs as the other, save a precious few. We didn't speak the same language. He knew this and this and this song and thought surely I would too. "Nope," I'd say. "I know the tune, but not the words." Then I'd ask if he knew this or this or this song... "Nope," he'd say.

Dang it!

When I'm with my family, we all know the same songs. And if we don't, it's not too long before we learn it. We mostly like the same sort of music. It made me miss my brother, who's guitar skills and repertoire are deep. It made me miss my mother, my sisters, both my brothers, and my dad, who sing all the time and can break into harmony, complete with SATB, if we're all there. We speak the same language, you know? And there's magic in the language of a family.

Parlez vous...?

(Mediocre post, at best, but I've been thinking about this little subject for a while now and I had to get it out, if crappily. My apologies.)

Dear Blog,

I'm sorry for my persistent absence. I have left you alone far too much, and it simply can't be good for you. I have been worried about someone reporting me for blog-neglect. That's so selfish, really. I'm worried about myself when you're the one who's hurting!

Even though I haven't been around, I think of you. I think of you in between all the other thoughts that have been swimming circles in my head. I've had a lot on my mind and it's all very crowded in my skull. Really, I should be hashing it all out with you, my stalwart friend, but for inexplicable reasons, I've been unable.

I told you once before that I look for silver linings. Do you remember that? Actually, I think it was my last post, just over a week ago. Well, I'm looking for them now and, in spite of your neglect, guess what I've found? Balance. At least a little bit... Along with more sleep. You have been telling me for a while now that I need to get more sleep and I'm finally obliging. Hopefully I can continue on this track because it's healthier for both of us. Wait patiently for me, Blog, as I'm sure I will be back, in force, once I figure out this phase of my life. (it's all an illusion, you know... just when I figure it out, a new phase rears it's head, ready to be tackled...)

Thanks for listening, Blog. I really have missed you and I hope to be feeling better soon.

Love,
Clancy


P.S. I miss my hubby... fiercely.