The tree is up. The baby is sleeping. The soup is on, and I, my friends, am back.
Of course, I don’t assume that you’ve waited around here for two years, on the off chance that I might come back, but just in case you have, I owe you an explanation.
When I signed off two years ago, I did so because I wanted to use what little free time I had to write stories, and for a while there, I did just that. Hey, I even started work on a children’s book. But just as I got into a good writing routine (any experienced mother could have seen this coming), my daughter dropped a nap.
And then Christmas rolled around.
And then I got pregnant. Remember? “The baby is sleeping”? Surely, you didn’t think that I still call my two-year-old “the baby,” did you? Because I didn’t mean that baby.
I meant this one:
Meet Sarah Charlotte. In all of the events of the last two years, her arrival is the one most worth mentioning. We named her in memory of a good friend of ours, and at three months, she’s a bubbly, content, snuggly little baby, whose smile is so sudden and so gleeful that it more than makes up for all of the dirty diapers, late nights and soggy clothes that arrived with her.
Can you tell? We kinda like her.
Also worth mentioning is Lydia: she’s two-and-a-half now, and what a quirky, curly-haired, joyful little girl she is. She keeps me busy, but wonderfully so, singing and reading stories and making imaginary phone calls to people that she loves, and she’s prone to saying those unexpected but delightful things that I believe are called “the darndest things”, like the time she marched up to me at a dinner party and commanded, “Mommy, wiggle your hips!,” while shaking her booty for all it was worth.
She’s a stellar big sister, too. I mean, do you see what she puts up with?
One more thing worth mentioning: next week, Mitch and I celebrate our eighth anniversary. Eight years! We’ve survived college (twice!), a shag-carpeted studio apartment, life in the county, two years without a bath tub, The Mustache*, and now, the entrance of two little girls, with whom we are smitten and exasperated in turns. It’s a good life.
So, you’re more or less caught up. Now, what can you expect from me? I really don’t know. I thought about starting a whole new blog, but I didn’t want to. I like this one, with it’s birdie banner and long, personal history. I thought about going all topical on you and writing about books or food or Christianity, but I didn’t want to. I want to just tell you about things as they come.
And I warn you: posts may not come to me regularly. I am, after all, writing to you now with one child out of the house and one in the bouncy seat at my feet, cooing, and moments like this don’t come all that often. But bear with me, if you want to. When the posts and the moments come together, I’ll share them with you, I promise.
*I actually didn’t mind The Mustache, but found it amusing when people assumed that I did. If that meant that they saw me as particularly forbearing and supportive, well, I didn’t mind that either.