I started my first blog in February of 2005. I was a full-time stay-at-home mom with a toddler and a preschooler and a lot of time on my hands. My days were arranged around naps and snacks and school pick up. I could name every character on Sesame Street, and I knew the words to every single Wiggles song.
Twice each week I had a three hour block when both boys were in school. I mostly spent it wandering the aisles at Target, pretending like I was grocery shopping. In reality, I was just enjoying the silence.
I was 36 years old and I felt like everyone I knew was younger than me.
Ten years later, I have a teen and a tween; they are both in middle school. The teenager has started shaving (not every day, of course, but still, he’s shaving) and has applied to high school. The little one wears a men’s size 8 shoe and talks about what life will be like when he’s in college. My days are arranged around carpool and basketball practice and guitar lessons. I can name the top five teams in men’s division I college basketball; I know all the words to more Taylor Swift songs than I like to admit.
A lot has changed in the last decade. My kids aren’t babies and I’m working again and no one in my house goes to bed before 9:30, except me. But in a more general way, nothing has changed. Parenting is still exhausting and rewarding in more or less equal measure, depending on the day; time alone is still precious; everyone else is still younger than me.
I’ve not written much in the past couple of years; there are a lot of reasons for this, too many to easily list here. Recently I’ve realized that I miss writing. I’ve started making lists of things to write about, of ideas and opinions and incidents. I keep waiting for the right moment or the right words or the right something to come along — but I think that what I really need to do is just write.
I’ve given up wine for Lent, which is probably insane, but there it is. But since I don’t believe that the road to atonement/enlightenment/insight comes only through deprivation, I’m also committing to writing something, anything, every day for 40 days. I don’t know what that will be — a sentence, a list, a dissertation on the value and failures of youth sports. But I will write some words, somewhere, every day until Easter.
I suppose I can use all the time I would have spent drinking wine.