Whoa, you guys.
It’s so weird to be here. Wild!
I haven’t blogged in ages (and not just because the word “blogged” is one of the most hideous words I’ve ever encountered. Seriously, it’s bad enough as a noun, but the verb? Get out of here!); I haven’t even opened this website. It’s one of those things that has an ever-present existence in my mind and on the internet, but not a place I often wish to visit.
I’ll be honest with you, as I do. I am proud of this blog and the girl who wrote it. I read some of my old writing and think, “Wow, that was well said. I wish I could still write like that!” But, this girl, young and talented, has left the building.
Hi, I’m Becca. I’m a woman, now. I’m not the same person who once poured my heart out on these pages. I am here today because she existed, but she’s like a sweater that I still love but that no longer fits. It itches. It’s gotten pulls. I keep it in my closet, nonetheless. I always will.
My kids are no longer babies. I recently saw the term “middle mom” so I guess that is where I currently reside; in the middle, somewhere between little kids and really big kids. Belle is 12, Beau is almost 9. They now have their own personalities, beliefs, and devices that can connect to the internet. They can search for my name, or for this website, or even their names, and read the scores of stories from the past. Their past. That’s a unique, amazing, charming, challenging thing about having started a blog when Belle was two-months-old.
Her birth story is on this site, in multiple parts, that I posted in a serialized succession over days and days. So is Beau’s. Both of their birth stories are in hard copy, in print, in the books. How cool is that!
And stories about mental health issues and harder times, and though we talk openly and honestly about these things, they’re still things. That exist. That have lives of their own. That future friends and colleagues will be able to Google and find. We are all OK with that, but it is not something that has not crossed my mind.
That double negative? A real blogger who spends time blogging wouldn’t do that. Ugh, that word!
Anyway, today is the last day of Summer and it’s giving me a pit in my stomach. This past week has felt like one, giant Sunday. Sundays are the worst. I much prefer Thursdays, and Beau agrees. Thursdays have the chill of the impending weekend and are filled with promise! And, Thursday night used to be the best night of TV! Do other people talk about how great Thursdays are?
Today, however, is not a Thursday. It’s the day of the scariest of Sunday scaries, so scary, in fact, that it’s a Monday.
And it’s hard. Exciting. Scary. Promising. But not as promising as a Thursday.
I searched this here website for stories of Back-to-School-Blues from years past.
(Back to School Stories here for your reading pleasure – or pain – as it were.)
And now I’m going to go spend time with my kids. We will tuck our carefully selected pencils and glue sticks and folders into the brand new pockets of brand new backpacks, along with our hopes for the year ahead. We will savor the last moments in tank tops and flip flops and towels. We will acknowledge the pits in our stomachs and give ourselves silent pep-talks, reminding ourselves that we’ve “got this!” and “this is just a feeling and it will pass” and that “change is always hard but it’s also good.” And by we, I mean I will do these things.
Because I’ve chosen this morning to snuggle into the coziness of my old sweater, the one that’s stretched out and threadbare, but reminds me of days gone by. The happy, hard and hopeful.
Because, isn’t that exactly what this time of year is?
Happy, and hard, and hopeful, and bloggish?
If this hideous word is going to be used as a noun and a verb, I insist upon using it as an adjective.
A story or life event deemed worthy enough to be shared in a post on the internet.
And though today we might not be able to muster up Thursday energy, let’s at least aim for Wednesday night vibes. Middle of the week feeling for a middle mom.
BWE, for sure.
It suits you. Like your new sweater.
And, I hope, like mine.