When writing isn’t fun……………don’t force it.
I’ve been thinking over the last few days that I need to update my blog, not from a desire to write great epilogues of life to inspire one and all, my phantom readers, but because, shamefully, this is the only record that I have regularly made. What makes it even more pathetic is that I’ve only been “blogging” for a month and I’ve written more about my life during that time than the previous 15 years put together.
Do I really care to leave a record of my existence on this earth when I leave it? A better question might be if anyone will want to know about me after I die.
A part of me wants to only record the happy, brady-bunch moments of my family life, so that if my children ever read it they’ll think they were raised in the epitome of childhood bliss. This of course only works on the assumption that they have very short memories and that at 20 they’ll either have repressed all the bad parenting moments or are extremely naïve. Both would work, but I think all three of my progeny are smarter than that.
I’ve never been big on, well, to put it somewhat crassly, blowing smoke up someone’s butt. Life is, well, real. (Brilliant hugh? I should copyright that. Or at least embroider it on something. Wait , I forgot, I don’t know how to embroider). Crap happens. Then great things happen to balance all the bad stuff out. Then when you’re just starting to feel comfortable, crap happens again. This week was a doosie. I could go on for 4 or 5 paragraphs about all the things that made me want to quit my life this week. But every time I’ve tried to sit down and put them into words, I just haven’t found the energy or desire to do so. So I’ll just store them away in the corner of my mind that ignores the bad things until they build up and I feel that nagging ulcer return. If my kids take that trait from me, maybe there really IS hope that they’ll grow up believing they grew up in Leave-it-to-Beaver land, or maybe the Osmond family.
Just please don’t let them compare us to the Simpsons.