Why do I even try?

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It has been over three months since I last wrote a blog post.

Nearly every night for the past month, I made an attempt to sit my butt down with my laptop fully charged and type something so thought provoking, it would blow the mind of parents and non-parents alike. But alas, those late night writing attempts were hijacked by my baby prematurely waking up for her next feeding, my husband sucking me into watching another Netflix series, the arduous nightly tasks of cleaning up post-dinner and getting my work items and baby’s daycare items ready for the next day, or plain old fatigue dragging me into bed at 9:00 p.m.

One thing I can say I am proud of is that I’ve been able to journal more often, sometimes several nights a week, which is pretty good compared to my previous once-a-month scribbles.  Journaling–which is usually my ranting about the mundane parts of my day in nonsensical, run-on sentences–is different than blogging.  I’m not one of those people who feels confident letting the world read nonsensical, run-on sentences about my daily grind.  For one, I don’t think my daily grind is all that captivating to begin with.

Who really wants to read about how I spent half an hour making a batch of pureed baby food that my baby only ended up eating two tablespoons of?  Or how I almost killed my husband by putting a foam roller right by the playpen, which caused him to trip and bounce off of the coffee table while holding the baby? (Do not be alarmed, everyone is safe and only slightly bruised).

My life was never that interesting to begin with.  I’ve always been a homebody, hermit-type, your typical sixty-year-old-trapped-in-a-twenty-nine-year-old-body that-I-swear-looks-like-a-fifteen-year-old.  The statement that rolls out of my mouth about five times a day is “I’m so tired.”  Since I was a college student, the idea of not being able to be in bed by 10pm made me highly anxious. I prefer to spend time with people I know and go to places I’ve been to I’m familiar with. I don’t really like traveling. I am a thrill.  Just ask my husband.

Since my baby came into my life, things have gotten more interesting and more mundane at the same time.  I am learning how to do things I’ve obviously never had to do before as a motherless woman, like looking for reliable daycare, get myself and a baby dressed and out the door in 30 minutes (really difficult, I tell you), and scrap poop off of a cloth diaper.  In one day, I get to go to a grocery store with an infant–which is actually really fun and entertaining–and spend two hours of that same day walking around the house back and forth, trying to convince an overly happy baby to shut her eyes.  Interesting, yet mundane. Do you see what I mean now?

I’ve been writing for 20 minutes now and I can tell you that my time is almost up.    Pretty soon, I will have a baby open her eyes from a deep slumber, cry, roll over on her belly, crawl over to the bars of the crib, pull herself up, and scream bloody murder because her mother is not next to her.  It’s the best and worst thing in the world. And the sick thing is that, deep down, the biological, maternal instinct in me anticipates it, yearns for it, and absolutely loves it.

It’s been over three months since I last wrote a blog post. World, this is the best that I’ve got.  Ciao–see you in another three months!  😛

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