Are you still there?
Taking a hiatus from the land of Internet can do a girl wonders. A girl might discover that all those naptimes spent blogging and reading blogs could be turned into Writing Time, and thus, one might be compelled to start writing a short story for the first time since, well, one began blogging. (Said story might then be sabotaged by a baby who decides that, hey! Napping is for the birds, forcing one to seriously reconsider how to best use the remaining thirty minutes per day during which one is then allowed to SIT DOWN.)
One might gain a certain perspective that motivates one to STOP WRITING IN RIDICULOUS TENSES and return to good old first person.
Clearly, I am avoiding telling you the news: some time away from Internet combined with a significant decrease in the free time I can reasonably expect in a single day combined with some long-standing ambivalence about the virtues of blogging (in my specific case) has led me to the solid conclusion that, um, I’m quitting.
This might be forever. It might be for right now. Who can say? Whatever comes of it, I’m grateful to all of you who have read and commented and borne with my excessive writing pace and/or month-long silences, particularly in the past year. The entries and comments of the first few months after Lydia’s birth are particularly sweet to me, and I thank you so much for participating in/encouraging me through that bleary-eyed, beautiful, chaotic time.
Rest assured that I am still writing – I haven’t quit that – even if I only manage a paragraph or two before bed most nights. The frequency will probably diminish before it picks up again, I’m sure.
I’ll give you a quick glimpse of where we’re at right now before we part ways: the house is wonderful, spacious, full of people most days of the week. We put that big kitchen to work regularly, though the second bedroom is still serving as a storage closet, and we’re still marvelling in the complete gift this place has been. Every third night or so, I pinch Mitch and cry, “Hey, guess what! We’re eating dinner at the dinner table in the kitchen.” Such things, in our history of closet-sized kitchens, had been previously unheard of.
Lydia is more delightful every day, even if she decided a few months ago (somewhat ironically, given my previous post on her long naps) that naps should not exceed 30 minutes, ever. She is that rare, wonderful creature commonly referred to as A Happy Baby, the sort whose cranky days are mild enough that I feel wretched for complaining because I suspect that other mothers would either ridicule me for being a complete lightweight or stare at me in such a bitter, exhausted way that I would be forced, out of shame and respect, to desist. How this happened, I don’t know, but she’s a good egg. I think we’ll keep her.
Thank you, once more, for everything, O Faithful Readers.
PS – Here’s one for the road.