They pack a powerful punch, don’t they? A sure way to silence a room.
It’s not surprising to hear, though, is it?
I think that it would be more surprising to know that the first time I remember being sexually assaulted was in the middle of my kindergarten art class. I sat at the back table, and I was wearing a skirt without shorts under it, so maybe I was asking for it?
I didn’t even know what to do as the little boy next to me stuck his hand up my skirt and grabbed at my underwear. I was shocked and slid nearly off the bench to get away from him.
A few days prior he had made comments tainted with innuendo that, at that age, I just didn’t understand, when I had accidentally reached into the crayon jar at the same time as him. So, perhaps I had been leading him on from the start.
I had hit a growth spurt as well. So, my skirt may have been a little shorter than I had intended, but I was so reluctant to let go of my favorite clothing when I out-grew it. The skirt was flashy with a vibrant animal print and ruffles. Perhaps I had called too much attention to myself with my clothing choice that day.
When he tried a second time, maybe he had misunderstood. I hadn’t verbally told him “no.”
“You know you want it,” he told me.
“No!” I said and pushed his hand away and slid as far away as I could.
The teacher told us to quiet down, and he retreated.
I thought that was the end of that.
I was wrong.
He tried again, more aggressively, and I remember pushing him back with all my might and yelling “Get your own and leave mine be!”
My teacher asked what was going on, but as I looked around the room with all eyes on me, I couldn’t find my tongue to speak. If this was fight or flight, the fight was taken out of me, and I wanted to run as far as I could. Instead I was placed on the opposite side of the table, where I ducked my head to avoid everyone’s glances and his constant taunts. You see, it was I that was moved from one side to the other, so surely I was the distraction.
Art was my favorite class, but I wouldn’t know that until the next year. Of the many times I had moved in my younger years, I had never been so happy. I never wore that skirt again. I think I buried it in the bottom of my closet. Then I buried the memory in that dark place we don’t like to go to or speak about.
I think it surprises me more when a woman I know hasn’t been sexually assaulted and even more when I know a man has come forward, because you’d think it would be easier for a man or a child. That they wouldn’t be blamed, but victim blaming is one of the few things in this world that seems to be without prejudice. It’s been my own personal experience that the victim goes above and beyond to blame themselves, so to say it out loud. To put pen to paper. To file a report… That’s just a way of reliving a traumatic event. I know that telling this story is the most PG version I could share with the world but to some people? It’s a terrifying idea.
If you think it’s crazy that a child would blame themselves for being attacked sexually, then I think it’s even crazier that one child would assault another in a sexual manner. I have no idea where that boy learned to behave like that. I don’t even remember his name. I don’t even know where it begins, and I don’t know how to make it end. I think most people would say at home.
Maybe we start by the idea that children don’t always have to share. That it’s okay to keep things to themselves. That they don’t have to hug or kiss someone on demand, simply because they are related or know them. Honestly, I have no idea how to fix society. I can only start with my own children and hope for a better future, but I wish it was one that I just taught them about consent and knew everyone else was learning the same lesson, but I also have to teach self-defense, because that’s the reality in which I live.
It takes courage to come forward, and the truth is, not everyone is strong enough to see or hear their story over and over again- myself included. Like I said before, this wasn’t the last and definitely not the worst, but it was the first time that I can recall, and after being together over a decade, reading these pages is the first time my husband has heard this story. Today will be the first time I tell my children, and this will be the first many of my family and friends will have heard of this.
It’s been my own personal goal this year to not stay silent, but I can understand that not everyone feels the same. I can’t take on the entire world and all it’s issues (it would break me down in an instant), but when I can step up, and I can say something, then I should, because I have another, younger generation looking to me to set the example.
If you take anything away from this post, let it be-
We shouldn’t be scared or shamed into silence. Not the first time. Not ever- but there are so many that still can’t speak out. It cost them them more than emotional pain. I can’t begin to imagine all those circumstance, but I understand it and on some level can empathize with it.
I just wanted someone out there to know that they’re not alone.
We’re not alone, because now that I have said it for everyone to see, in a way…I’m no longer alone either.
Sometimes I try so hard to be a survivor that I forget I was a victim.
So, the only words I can find to share with you are-
I’m sure a vast majority would never call me the poster child for feminism and would say I have little right other than my gender to speak on the topic, myself included. I grew up thinking that I shouldn’t be bossy. I was rarely one to take the lead, unless I felt overtly passionate about a subject. Even now as an adult, a wife, and a mother, I find myself quiet on topics that I find I can let go when looking at the bigger picture. I pick and choose my battles. I think that’s just part of growing up, and you just hope at the end of the day you’re not on the winning side, but the one that is right morally.
It took having not just a daughter but also a son to really bring me into feminism. I have tried to raise my kids with eyes wide open to prejudice and inequality not just for themselves but those around them, and I’ll be honest, there were bias that I hadn’t even realized I turned a blind eye to before having kids. Never for a moment would I let them believe it was okay to see someone as less or even greater than themselves based on prejudice, even if that prejudice is gender.
All that being said, I’m also a “kept woman.” (That’s the nicer of terms I’ve been labelled staying at home while my husband works.) What I see as a partnership that has spanned almost a decade with my husband that now allows me to be a stay-at-home mother to our two kids, many see as me being bought and paid for. I could sit and list the tasks I try to complete on a daily basis, but the list of things I don’t seem to have time for is nearly twice as long. (Honestly, I shouldn’t even be blogging, which is why, if you look, you will see this part of my life is sorely neglected.)
Most of the time I just feel worn out. I feel like I have given a piece of myself up to be a mother and spouse. So much so that I sometimes find myself forgetting my own name. I’m just “Mama” or “Addy Osmani’s Wife.”
I’m not complaining. Those are my favorite titles in the world, I’d have to say. I am so proud of my husband and children. I am their biggest fan. I sit in the front row. I take pictures, and I lug around all their crap from event to event. I cook, I clean, I garden, and I chauffeur. I sit through doctor and dentist appointments. I worry about them all constantly, and I love them more than reason. Even though sometimes I feel overworked and underpaid, the benefits are so great that I couldn’t imagine a career in anything else.
When I am around his colleagues a lot of times people will ask if I code, and when I say that I do not, they are curious how we met, because I am an anomaly in his world, as he is in mine. We laugh when people ask if I’m in the tech industry. Not to make fun of the person asking or even me, but the idea is very silly to us both, because I am the least tech savvy person you may meet next to your own grandmother. I once attempted to delete System Windows32, but in my defense it was in add/remove programs, it said it was rarely used and taking up a lot of room. (true story) I mean, I have my good qualities. I can make you a pie from scratch or paint you a picture. I break things, and I make things. It evens out.
So, I walked around the event in search of swag to send to a childhood friend that is a huge fan of my husband and also had hopes of finding something child appropriate for the kinder. I stayed away from the fray, because not everyone has the patience to talk to a n00b. That’s when I found a sticker I had been searching for ever since my tablet died, and it refused to be removed.
BINGO! I could have squeed. I may have. I stopped worrying that people were looking at me, knowing I was a total fraud and had no idea what they were talking about, although I listened to each pitch and brought home my husband a bag full of literature to go through.
I was so happy and excited that I forgot being insecure around all these tech gurus, and I asked if I could have not one but two. I know, I know. Greedy, but a girl can never be too careful. (Am I really the only one that has bought a second pair of my favorite shoes, that hide in the closet, waiting for the next blowout?)
When the young woman scanned my badge, she looked at the company listed and asked what I did there, and I made the bad joke of being married to an employee.
I explained the mistake-
My husband works there and to get my badge printed, he typed in his company name while my hands were full. (The badge had printed, and I knew my fate was sealed. That I would be trying to correct people all day, so I tried to explain through fancy networking ribbons.)
She asked where I did work.
I sheepishly said that I was a stay-at-home mom.
“They have those in the tech industry?” She laughed hysterically at my expense. “Don’t tell any women in tech that, because they’ll find it offensive.” She chuckled a little more.
Her words cut me like a knife, and while an older male colleague of hers started in about ageism in the industry, my ears started buzzing. It felt like a punch in the gut, because it brought up all those doubts I had about myself over the years to give up working every day or taking care of my family as a full time job.
My self worth diminished in that moment, I turned away and soon left. Ironically I was on my way to listen to keynote talks about diversity, inclusion, and community. I actually felt like an outsider looking in as they went on, and my recent interactions stewed inside of me until I was slightly shaky from anxiety, but those with unseen illnesses like anxiety and depression (although that’s a whole other blog post entirely) will empathize with me all too deeply when I say that I can plaster a smile on and act like I don’t have a care in the world. It’s an exhausting affair, but I grew up on the phrase “fix your face.”
I still couldn’t believe a woman in any industry would treat another woman like that, but especially a woman in a field that is already facing its own battle with sexism. My daughter aspires to work in mathematics or business, and I kept thinking, what if she had heard that? What if either of my kids had heard it?
Would they think less of me as a mother? Less of a feminist? A woman? Less of a person?
Would they grow up and think less of those that dedicate their lives to raising families and greater of those that have careers?
I learned to type twenty five years ago. I was the only 2nd grader in summer school keyboarding class. I took it by mistake. My mom told me I could learn to play the keyboard, but I’m pretty determined, so they got me a big phone book to sit on, and I was at 35 wpm before I knew it. They said I was adorable, and I’d make a great secretary one day. As luck would have it, I got an electronic typewriter before I ever had access to my own “family” computer. Today I can type faster than the great Addy Osmani, but that’s about as far as my typing skills have taken me.
Today my daughter can not just learn to type, but she can learn to code and take robotics in the 7th grade! That blows my mind and makes my Grinch heart swell three sizes. That people look at my daughter and see the same potential as my son is amazing to me, because I didn’t grow up in that society. I hope that one day they grow up in a world that is blind to race, religion, nationality, sexual orientation, and gender.
At least that’s my dream. I think as a mom we all hope for a perfect world for our children.
I’m not naming this woman or the company she works for or even the event, because my goal is not to shame another woman. I feel there has been enough of that for one day, thank you. I merely want to point out to women in all industries and walks of life that we can stand together, or we can tear ourselves apart, but if we can’t treat each other with respect, how can we expect the rest of the world to respect us.
“I would tell her to walk a mile in my shoes.”
That’s the only response I could croak out to that young woman without crying like an idiot.
I feel so many women don’t even realize this country is more than 220 years old and women have been able to vote for less than 100 years, because we were seen as “less than.”
I implore any women reading this to just be kind to one another. Compliment each other. Inspire others. Support one another.
The world is tough enough on our gender without us being hard on each other.
P.S. Sorry for the insanely long post, but even though Twitter was little quiet on my tweet, but it lacked GIFs or hashtags of my usual tweets. When it posted to my facebook page , some people wanted an explanation beyond the 140 characters I was allowed on Twitter. So, for the TL;DR you can check out that tweet.
And I am a bookaholic.
If I am a crazy old lady that ends up on Hoarders it will be for my castle made of books.
There’s actually a book store in LA that I want to visit with my family sometime. Because I am the type of person who goes on vacation to read. Srsly tho. Click that link and put that on your bucket list.
It’s been one week since my last binge read. The Mortal Instruments and Infernal Devices series. My eyes ache, and my soul is a little empty, because I have to wait at least three more months for the new series to come out. AHH. Tolkien had a word for it. Mythopoeia. As much as I am loathe to admit that Stephanie Meyer is right…Cassandra Clare does create a world you want to live in. Well, at least, a world in which I would want to live, where mundanes like me can rest easy, because angels walk among us, fighting our demons for us.
I am also the type of person that will fall in love with an already cancelled show, so I watch until just a few episodes before the end, so that it’s still going in my mind. I suppose I’m that way with books. Sometimes I will read a book so slowly or not finish the last chapter, because in my mind, the story continues. (Ironically, the Never Ending Story is on that list.) It’s been this way for Go Set A Watchman. I know that for certain there will never be another Harper Lee novel, and I am treating this book like the long lost treasure it is.
To Kill A Mockingbird is my favorite book. It is a piece of literature that has touched the depths of my soul. I will say this. That if ever in the pages of a book, a white knight resided, Atticus Finch would be mine.
And if I gave a voice to Scout. It would be that of Reese Witherspoon. I have got to buy the audiobook! Because even when I’m not reading a book…I’m still reading a book. Or rather, having one read to me.
Alas, it’s the middle of the night, and I am writing and not reading, PROGRESS! Even if it’s just writing about reading…
Love and Mockingbirds,
Oh, Christmas. I love you, and you exhaust me. Whatever made me think getting married three days before Christmas was a great idea…I don’t know. Maybe it was Magic Mommy Juice.
There are some people that bah-humbug the holiday, and that’s fine. Just don’t rain on my Adoration Day Parade. They had a Light Up ceremony that was akin to the Charlie Brown Christmas tree in terms of celebration on this side of the pond. I miss driving through the lights with the kids. Sometimes three times in a row. Nothing beats Silver Dollar City at Christmastime. Is it any wonder that I love Christmas? I did personalized Christmas ornaments as my profession for three seasons and worked at a year round Christmas shop. It’s really no wonder that my Instagram is filled with holiday decorations. Tis the season.
It also means sending twenty Christmas cards, half a dozen packages, and ten shoe boxes. The shoe boxes sounds like a lot, but I wish I could have done ten times that number. I wish I could volunteer at soup kitchens and read to kids in the hospital. I am only one person, though.
I grew up in a small Baptist church environment. Some years when I thought I wouldn’t have much of a holiday at all, they showed me the true meaning of Christmas.
Now I try to give back as much as I can, and it often leaves me drained. It’s why I can’t shop the month of December. I reserve that time for baking. Nearly 20 loaves of banana bread for the school faculty and friends/neighbors…banana bread again? Yes, I am actually being lazy. I don’t want to bake 20 dozen cookies. I also have to make four dozen cupcakes for the school bake sale this year. I don’t even wanna think of Christmas Eve dinner or my son’s birthday twelve days after Christmas. A Grinch could not do it. Would not do it. That’s okay.
Because I was a crazy woman that got married seven years ago, three days before Christmas. That is a day that I try to silence the holidays. Christmas, Hanukkah, Eid…Kwanza, whatever that may be (if you know without Wikipedia, feel free to try and find the comment button–I think this stupid layout put it at the top of the post)…that’s the day I focus on my husband. Sure, he gets other days. Valentine’s, His Birthday, and Father’s Day…but I married a Grinch. His favorite Christmas movie is Die Hard. He is all bah humbug until he opens his gifts on Christmas morning. Kinda like my dad.
He needs that couple of days before Christmas to keep his head from exploding.
I think we both do.
But especially him. I mean, he married me.
This year I am planning our anniversary festivities. I can barely keep the awesome secrets inside. It’s going to be epic. I’ll have to blog about it in a couple of weeks, or I will surely explode! Let’s just say. I might be the annoying type of person, but sometimes there is a fine line between annoying and awesome.
Love and Maple Syrup,
Okay, to some people, it might not be the “best ever” per say…but it’s my favorite recipe. People seem to really like it. If you actually read my blog, which is unlikely, but if you do, then you know that I just said that after baking I never feel like blogging. That’s true usually, but this is while it’s still quiet in the house. The kids aren’t awake yet, the neighbors haven’t pulled out their power tools, and I’m enjoying the silence and a cup of coffee. This is before the four yapping dogs, drills, saws, and my bickering children have had a chance to crush my spirit for the day. Besides, the website where I originally found this recipe is down. I had to have my husband search the dark spaces of the internet for a cached copy, so that I could write it down (and tweak it a little).
For people who already know how to bake and don’t appreciate my witty monologue, trust me, I understand. In a couple of hours, I’m going to have two kids in the house who don’t care how it magically appeared. They will just want to consume my offerings and go numb their minds with some form of technology. Such is the life of tweens. (Editor’s note: I am not a bad parent, or at least the worst. Most of my kids’ games have been educational and non-violent. They also love reading. I’m not suggesting they are going to play DOOM or Grand Theft Auto while facebooking and tweeting.)
So, I’ll cut to the chase. Post the recipe here, and then go through it for clarification for some people who might not understand certain terms or know what substitutions can be made. People, say, perhaps a software engineer who might tell his wife that he can bake, but ever since the Great Cookie Debacle of ’07, she might tend to believe otherwise. (I’m lookin’ at you, Osmani.) He is a web wizard, though. If your ‘ key suddenly stops working, as mine did earlier, he will fix ‘er right up. If you need a caked iced, though, he’s more likely to lick the spoon when you’re finished than help. I know a lot of people who will see how long it takes to make this recipe or the ingredients, and they will feel intimidated and not try or just “wing” it. For those people, I’ll give a few tips at the bottom, but for people who know how to bake, I’ll shut up and get on with it.
Elle’s Awesome GF Banana Bread
(My recipe, so I get to name it.)
1 1/4 c. Gluten Free Flour
1 tsp. baking powder
1/4 tsp. salt
1/2 tsp. xantham gum
1 c. sugar
1/3 c. brown sugar
1/2 tsp. cinnamon (optional)
2 1/2 ripe bananas, mashed
1/2 c. coconut oil, melted and cooled
1 tsp. vanilla
Preheat oven to 350 F/175 C
Prepare bread pan
Melt and cool coconut oil
Mash bananas with a fork. Mix wet ingredients along with the sugars together with hand mixer until combined.
Measure the remaining dry ingredients in separate bowl. Whisk until cinnamon, salt, xantham gum, and baking powder are incorporated into the flour.
Slowly add the dry mixture into the wet mixture and mix with hand mixer until combined.
Pour into pan and bake for 50-60 minutes or until toothpick comes out clean.
Remove from pan and cool on a wire rack.
Enjoy! Should make 1 loaf. ❤
Now, for the some people that might look at some of this like:
I mean, why is sugar a dry ingredient, but is almost always mixed with the wet ones? I don’t know. I’ll tell you what my Grams always tells me…because I said so, that’s why.
Some people don’t think pre-heating the oven is important. It takes a few minutes for the oven to heat up. You want your food to cook thoroughly and for it to come out at the correct time. Some people would say: I know that, I’m not an idiot. You would be surprised. I find myself forgetting to turn the oven on first sometimes. Usually before my first pot of coffee…
The difference between greased and prepared is pretty simple. A greased pan is coated with an oil. I prefer to use butter when I am baking (making sure to get into the corners really well.) I just think it works nicely and tastes better than trying to use say…olive oil. A prepared pan is greased, then you tap flour around the inside (cocoa powder if you are making something chocolate, like brownies or a cake) until it’s lightly dusted. Even though the oil I use in this recipe is coconut oil, I still prepared/greased the pan with butter (note: allow the butter to “soften” a little before you use it), and although this recipe only makes one loaf, I greased an extra pan to show the difference.
Now, when it comes to the coconut oil. I usually measure it out into a glass measuring cup, then I can just microwave it at 30 second intervals, adding a little oil if needed, as I go. This is the WARNING: that I write on my recipe cards, so that even I won’t forget it. Make sure the oil is cooled before you add it! Otherwise, it will scramble your eggs. Literally. You don’t want your eggs to start cooking until they are in the oven.
Not So Pro Tip: In the picture the eggs are in my other glass measuring cup (if you look closely you can see I have one for the US and one for the UK). I was taught to crack my eggs in a separate container, so that if you crack an egg with say a “gross little surprise” inside, it won’t go messing up all the ingredients you already have in the bowl. Also, it makes it easier to pick out shells.
I’m sure you could try to an egg substitute if you wanted to make this a vegan gluten-free recipe. We like eggs, milk, and meat in this house, but the head of the household can’t handle his gluten. (I’m lookin’ at you, Osmani.) You could also use melted and cooled butter, sunflower, or canola oil instead of coconut oil. (It goes without saying that the sunflower and canola oils are already melted and cooled, but I’m saying it.) I like coconut oil in this recipe, because I think coconut oil is better for you, and the slight trace of coconut flavor compliments the banana more than it would say, fried chicken.
I find myself having to substitute quite often, but google it first, don’t go guessing all willy-nilly. I left the gluten free flour up to the imagination a little bit. There are a few types of GF flour. I use a blend. I would not compromise or omit the xantham gum if I were you, though. A lot of gluten-free baked goods are dry or crumbly. This is the ingredient that gives it that faux-gluten texture in my opinion.
When it comes to the bananas, make sure they are ripe. Try not to bake with green bananas. Brown ones are great. I like to buy the discounted brown bananas at the grocery store, peel them, and throw them in a bag in the freezer to use for pancakes, muffins, bread, and smoothies.
Here’s another little tip that I learned when I first started baking. Another, oh, yeah, that’s totally obvious tip. Don’t measure your ingredients into the cups/spoons over top of your mixture. Measure out over another bowl or plate, so that if you go overboard, you don’t have to adjust all your ingredients accordingly. For sugar this isn’t as bad as say accidentally spilling a tablespoon of salt into the recipe.
I could just tell you this, but I am adding a photo to show off my heart shaped measuring cups, because they are pretty.
And here comes the heart-shaped whisk (but if you aren’t fab enough for the heart shaped whisk, you can use a fork). Make sure the flour, baking powder, salt, and xantham gum are blended before you add them to the wet mixture, so they are evenly distributed. You don’t want a clump of salt in your food.
Don’t over mix the bananas with the hand mixer. The original recipe said you could combine everything in the blender or food processor, but I like to make things harder on myself. Which is why I mixed everything by hand, because I like to be difficult and forgot to remind myself before my first cup of coffee about the arthritis in my hands and wrists. Ususally, though, I use a hand mixer for this recipe.
Not So Pro Tip: When you put the bread into the oven, put it on a middle rack, so that you don’t over bake the top of the bottom. I have a tiny British oven, so I put it on the middle rack for 45 minutes, then check the bread, usually moving it down to a lower rack for the last 10-15 mins, so that the top/edges don’t burn.
Since the pan was prepared beforehand, it should pop right out of the pan after you pull it from the oven. I put my bread on a wire cooling rack, but it barely had a chance to say hello to the air and let me take a picture before it was gobbled up. This is a family and friend favorite recipe. If you found out before now that I don’t actually eat the banana bread, you might have stopped earlier and said “screw this.” It’s a great recipe. People love it (I have one friend who seems to ask me every Sunday at church when I’m going to bring her some more), but I prefer cookies. *insert winky face*
I hope that I helped people who might need to eat Gluten-Free but think they can’t bake much more than a frozen pizza. It’s not as hard as it looks/sounds. Promise.
Night Day and Good Luck.
Love and Loaves,
I know it’s not Father’s Day, but I’d been thinking about him lately, and even though he’s a pretty busy guy, I called my dad tonight and actually got to talk to him and not his voicemail. This rarely happens, and so he inspired me to write a little something.
A lot of people say I look like my mom. My Grams and I have a lot of similar characteristics. The fact that she is younger than your average grandma means I often get mistaken for her daughter. I’m not really sure what my dad looks like. I grew up without a father, but about twenty years ago I got a Dad. We might not look a like. Actually, it’s horrible that when we go out people often think he’s my husband. Talk about gross. I’m not sure anything is more embarrassing when you’re a teenager.
However, after two decades together, we do act alike. I find myself singing off-key tunes about my surroundings like I’m living in a broadway production, even though I used to roll my eyes at his musical numbers. I have no shame. This I get from him. I will dance in front of my kids’ school or in the middle of a crowded store. (After ten years, my kids are immune to this, but my friends’ kids are quick to act like they don’t know me and beg me to stop.) I will dance in the rain when other people run for cover. I am not too old to jump on trampoline or play hide and seek, and I don’t think I ever will be. My crazy antics and childlike ways are all from my dad.
The practical joker inside of me definitely didn’t come from my mom. We all have that one friend that is constantly jumping out shouting “BOO!” and trying to make us pee our pants. Well, I am that friend. I get it honest, though. Now my dad lives seven time zones away, so I have to settle for torturing my husband…with love.
Like the time we shared a Spotify account (this is probably how I ended up getting my own premium account), and I added this pop song that he absolutely LOATHES randomly to his over 100 playlists, if the playlist was really long, I’d add it twice. He spent over a year removing it, and I’m sure there’s still a couple hanging around. My dad used to throw random things in the grocery cart while my mom wasn’t looking, we’d have cart races, and play “football” in the aisles with a roll of paper towels. In hindsight, this is probably how he ended up never having to go with my mom to the grocery store.
I say the same smart aleck responses that my dad uses. The same annoyingly parental unit come backs.
Oh, Hi, Hungry. I’m Elle. Nice to meet you.
What’s for dinner?
What kind of food?
The kind you eat.
Believe me, I face-palm myself even thinking about it. I stop myself sometimes and go: How did this happen? I grew up groaning over these antics. I suppose eventually we all grow up to become our parents. The things that made your eyes want to roll back into your head while you sighed so hard you almost blew the house down? Yeah…one day you’ll do and say those things. I used to stop short and shake my head, but I’ve come to embrace them. Maybe one day my children will pass on the Starving Brain Sucker to my grandchildren.
Love and Cheese,
It’s me again. Long time, no write.
It’s been…awhile. I had forgotten what you even looked like to be honest.
Well, as you can see, I still look the same.
Two of my oldest and dearest friends have called me out on my writing…or lack thereof. (I like to call it Chronic Writer’s Block, and I’m still working on experimental treatments.) It’s funny how we all have those friends. The ones that have known you so long that even if years pass without saying a word, you can pick up right where you left off without missing a beat. These friends also have the tendency to accurately call you out on your BS.
So, here I am trying to fit a blog post into my crazy life at two o’clock in the morning. Never mind that I have to be up in five hours, still have to get ready for bed, and I have a dentist appointment tomorrow afternoon. Those are just the minor details that I like to call life. I started another blog, and abandoned it. (Big surprise, right?) I have so many things I want to do that often times so much gets overlooked, and the truth is that, sadly, my writing has been pushed to the back burner. Once upon a time, when I felt that I had no voice, I realized that on paper I could let myself finally be heard. I once even won a trip to Washington, D.C., all expenses paid, for a week just because of an essay I wrote at lunch and printed out as the bell was ringing. It used to come so easily. Now, I sit for hours staring at the cursor while it mocks me with its pulsating blink. Write it down on paper, you might say…oh, the paper wad mountain in the recycling bin is just as frustrating. Other times, I can manage to close myself off, get it all down, then I go back to the habit I have had since livejournal and myspace blogs…I highlight and delete, convinced that my voice doesn’t deserve to be heard.
I mean, look at all the blogs out there. Everyone and their mother has a blog. Some people have blogs with their mothers. I am hardly the first person to have an Autistic child, and I am certainly not the first wife and stay-at-home mom. I am not a trailblazer, because I moved from the Ozark Mountains to London. There is no novelty for most people in travel in a world of been there, done that, and I’m still a novice at it anyway. Sure, I bake gluten-free goodies that rock pretty hard. I bake a lot of things that are awesome, but what did I make that I didn’t already get from another blog or one of my many cookbooks? I can craft my little heart out, but when I’m covered in paint, mod podge, or just burned my finger with hot glue, I’m not exactly dying to take pictures every step of the way, and write a how-to manual. To those crafty blogs that I often read, y’all deserve gold stars.
With all the voices out there struggling to be heard, I’m pretty sure mind would get lost in the wind, or at least somewhere along the information highway. I always think to myself, ¨Is this original? Has it been done before? Done to death? Do I sound like an idiot?¨
I think now, it’s probably the sleep deprivation talking, and I promise not to delete this in the morning, but I think that it doesn’t matter if I’m not the first. I don’t have to be a trailblazer, and no matter how quiet my voice is, that maybe there are a few people willing to hear it. My life isn’t a Hollywood movie. It’s not even a made-for-TV or straight-to-DVD movie. It’s just life. It’s messy and complicated. It’s loud and most of the time, utterly exhausting, but it’s mine. I wouldn’t change that for the world. Would I change things about myself? Sure. Loads, probably. Not my life, though. I love where I am and those that I get to spend my days with.
Possibly… it might even be semi interesting enough to write about. I’m sure I can find a few things in the last few years to ramble on about, because currently the best I got is that it’s the kids’ last day of school tomorrow, and I’m having a crown. The one that involves a root canal, not the fun party or royal kind. I feel like I’d rather be chased by a serial killer clown than write about that, and I don’t want to imagine how painful it would be to read. Now, I should probably get to bed.
Tomorrow’s a brand new day.
Procrastination and Love,