Being a mom most days means living in a fairly constant state of oblivion. As long as my son has a lunch to take to school, his favorite clothes are clean, food is on the table and there’s a ready ride to where he needs to be, I can go for days, weeks, years even it seems, pretty much unnoticed. We schlep and we haul and we pack and we motivate and we advise. We kiss the boo-boos, bake the cakes, vacuum the cobwebs no one else notices, all while fulfilling our “wifely” duties and trying to look our best. My husband swears the other day he told me I looked nice when he got home, but he must have said it mumbling and walking away, as he does most things, because I sure never heard it. I swear there are entire conversations that exist exclusively in that big head of his, especially if they are remotely appreciative, because I rarely ever hear words like that produced out loud. To my face. Voluntarily. And God-forbid I should point out the fact that I got my hair done that day, because then I get the defensive, “I said you looked nice today!” *grumble, mumble*
During March, however, when I was obsessively blogging and feeling a downright responsibility to do so, little of the above actually got done. And I LOVED it! I was using my mind, remembering words I hadn’t played with in ages, feeling appreciated by all of my readers (thanks Anna and Mr. B). I had things to talk to my husband about that didn’t involve something needing to be fixed or purchased. It was the least lonely I’ve felt since moving to California, even though most of the time I was very much alone. I think because of so much time spent in front of a computer, I was more willing to seek out contact with actual, blood-pumping humans. All of which would be amazing, if only I could figure out a way to seek out contact ($$--ahem) with an actual vacuum-wielding cleaning lady. HEPA filtered. Who does windows. And laundry. And uses green products.
Not that blogging is all harp-holding cherubs all the time; there will always be those who disagree with me, judge me and laugh at me for all the wrong reasons. And forgetting to pick up my son more than once in awhile is likely to get me the wrong kind of notice at school. And apparently I needed yet another reminder today to COMPOSE IN WORD, because it REALLY blows when you lose internet connection mid-post. Curse you, again, AT&T!! April’s NaBloPoMo Poetry on BlogHer was a heroic fail. Apparently an on-demand or disciplined poet, I am not. Though I did love the idea—the romance—of it, I have come to understand that writers tend not by nature to be particularly disciplined people. Huh. So maybe that’s why I’m that way. And when you don’t look in a mirror all day, or have anyone sitting in a cubicle next to you to tell you that you’re still wearing your jammies, have spinach in your teeth, or that your skin is flaking off your face, you might usually leave the house looking like a bit of a wreck, or hurriedly pull on shorts only to discover that you haven’t actually taken the time to shave in a week. And, oh shit, you don’t have any clean pants to wear anyway.
Wow. Dry shaving sucks.