Writing For the Love of It

 I lived in all kinds of houses growing up. The first one I remember is the basement of my Grandparents' house in Sandy. This one seems the most familiar to me and was probably home the most often. I vaguely remember  a small apartment in Tennessee-mostly I just remember being right outside our door, we were upstairs, and watching people of the complex. One weird memory is watching people eat something out of tube that looked like toothpaste and I was kind of disgusted but also very curious and wanted to try it. I remember our Virginia Beach house a bit better, with it's separate dinning room I thought was so fancy. I remember the backyard of my Oklahoma house because I spent many, many hours out there playing pioneers, or Star Wars, or orphanage. There was a big scary dog on the other side of the dilapidated fence, and I remember being scared and curious about that dog. I don't remember the inside of that house as well. Then there was our Clarksville, Tennessee house where

My kids have string lights in their room. Colorful stars for the boys and soft white fairy lights for my girl. I love their lights. It makes their rooms more fun and inviting. And I think of myself as a child and I would have been giddy with joy to have magical fairy lights in my room. I think they like them. They fall asleep with them on, so part of my nightly routine is to go and unplug them so they can sleep better in a darker room. Every night as I do, I see them sleeping so soundly and my heart swells with love for my little people. We were watching Ron Gone Wrong together the other day, and there's a part when the dad talks about his son being a little piece of his heart walking around outside of him. What a perfect way to describe our children and how we feel so intensely about them. I just feel totally and completely overwhelmed with love for them every night as I go and unplug their lights and pray for them. It's a crazy amount of love. Is it evolution? Am I hardwired

 I'm feeling so super sick. The yucky kind. Tummy issues. We've all been eating the same thing so I think it's just stress. I've been maxed out. Tired. Burnt out. I'm in my fluffy blanket he bought me one day when I was having a bad day. I love this blanket. It's so freaking soft. Like magical feeling. My legs are draped over him and he is rubbing them and I'm rubbing his chest occasionally resting my head on his shoulder, but also lifting it to watch Psych with him. Earlier he got me a 7up from downstairs to help with my tummy issues. I'm feeling a little better now. We laugh at the wacky coroner from Psych. And I feel my heart warm with love for this man. This man who isn't disgusted by the fact I have tummy issues and still holds me. This man who worries about me and wants to find ways to help me feel better. This man who holds me and laughs with me. And I think, "so this is love." We've been married for over 11 years. And I still st

 Okay, I am writing three blog posts in one night. I have way too much on my brain, clearly. But I just need to write about this profoundly moving experience I had today. I've got to put it here so I can remember the lessons I learned/relearned/remembered. Today was...rough. One of my children who is far too old to pee on the couch, peed on the couch. And then I found poop on the wall from another child. My three were fighting and cranky all day. I slept terrible last night so I was also feeling terrible irritable and the poop and pee everywhere did not help my state of mind.  We were invited to see a movie with cousins and Grandma and Grandpa. It was supposed to be a fun thing, a peaceful family outing. But driving there my kids were yelling and fighting again and I was both livid at my kids yet also sad that I was livid and cranky with them. Then as we walked up to the theater, I saw S in front of me, skipping happily and excitedly and thought "Wow, he is just so happy and c

 I have always LOVED writing about myself. Why? I don't know, but I think it has something to do with the fact that I'm a social anxious extrovert? So a huge part of me wants to put myself out there and be known and heard, but I have crazy amounts of anxiety around people. Writing seems like a safer way to put myself out there, or at least pretend I'm putting myself out there. I also think that maybe growing up the oldest of eight kids left me feeling kind of...invisible? That on top of being totally socially anxious at school, where I also felt invisible, might be reasons why I like to write about who I am.  It's also been such a life long quest for me to figure out who I even am. I am still on this journey. When I was younger I remember people always asking me why I was so quiet. And I distinctly remember at some point in my childhood a peer telling me I had "no personality." Which, well, to them I didn't. I was just that girl who never talked and was aw

 Here I go again, starting another blog. Consistency is not my thing, clearly. I have gone through all my blogs again and smiled and my young thoughts. I have been wanting to write again, but I keep trying to go with a theme, and I am just not the type of person that can focus on one theme. I like all the things. I want to talk about all the things. I wish I had more people to talk to, but I have a very tiny circle of friends and I don't want them to get sick of me talking because I could probably talk for HOURS about so many of these things because I am a nerd. So, I decided I need to start writing again as an outlet so I can be semi normal in conversations and not word vomit all over anyone who shows the vaguest of interest in me and my life. (And also it will help me give my poor sweet husband a break).  Another hang up I keep having as I start blog after blog is that I want it to be PERFECT. Perfect, dang it!! I want to have it researched with sources and convincing rhetoric an