When I don't have a chance to write about my day, I really miss it now. I think this blog creates a pattern of punctuation. If I don't stop to write at least a few reflections, all the things I wish to remember vaporize and are gone. This must be why so many people have told me that their first year with twins was a blur and they hardly remember anything at all. But if I take a moment to stop and write, my life ceases to feel like one long day and a different rhythm is instituted. I appreciate it.
I have never been a good journaler. Journaling, to me, has always been something, if you're being honest about your life, that you wouldn't want someone else to find and read because it would be embarrassing and/or incriminating. I can't count how many pages I have ripped out of journals because everything I wrote made me want to vomit. Apparently I should have hung onto them because there is a market for this kind of thing. My friend Nikki goes to open mike nights where people read from their junior high journals. She says it is hysterical. I'm not surprised. Because hysterical is exactly what we were when we wrote them.
I think my hang up is the audience. If you're journaling, who is the audience? Some people keep prayer journals, so I guess in that case, God is the audience. I like that idea, but when I try it, it just sounds like verbose emotional cholesterol (the bad kind), again my gag reflex is activated and I rush to my nearest garbage can or recycling bin - I can't decide which is better in this case- I would shred it, but my shred pile is nearing bonfire status- and the result is anything but meditative and instructive.
So, somehow this blog medium compels me. It scares me a bit- the openness of it all and I find I err too much on the side of censorship. But having an audience demands that you tell a story and that works for me. If there is one thing I could become excellent at (since the Lord did not see fit to make me a theatrical triple threat), I guess it would be story telling. So often I don't post anything because I don't have time to write something involved. So here's to the beginning of giving myself permission to tell very short stories.
My mom and I took Glory and Elena to the grocery store today. Elena had refused to take her afternoon nap because mom and Mike arrived right before naptime and she wanted to be social. As soon as we got in the car, she zonked out and was still sleeping when I parked in the underground garage. Mom stayed with her while Glory and I zipped through the store, me feeling as light as a feather with only one child and her kicking her legs to some internal rhythm, her little pudgy feet smacking me in the sides. When the elevator opened for Glory and I to go down, there was Mom and Elena. We returned to the car and Elena was disillusioned and mad. She thought she had come all this way to have an experience and now we were buckling her right back into the car seat. She screamed. And screamed. So I decided to feed her before we left so she wouldn't cry all the way home. Talk about recipe for a car accident. I didn't have anything to cover up with, so I just counted on my tinted windows to be enough of a shield. As I nursed Elena, she pressed the automatic window button with her toes and rolled it all the way down. I rolled it back up and she proceeded to roll down Glory's window with her toes.
It's is 11:08pm and I am trying to put a button on this post. This story doesn't have a lot of zing and it wasn't life changing. But it was funny and it made me happy. It was unexpected and charming and it involved more pudgy feet, which is always a really good thing. And I guess that's enough for now.