I am not writing my blog right now because I want to spend time with the twins before they leave for their summer plans. I scheduled these posts so the blog wouldn’t be empty, using a random date generator (from random.org) to choose the posts. Having the kids go is still really, really hard. I’ll be back soon.

I came to pick up that weight recently when I had cause to go down into the storage room to find an old toy. First of all, the storage room is unusable once again. There are too many boxes and there’s nowhere to shift them around. I managed to move a few into the laundry room and sift through some boxes, but I realized two things. (1) I had saved much more than I needed to save. There were a lot of things in those boxes that I would never use again such as random stuffed animals or puzzles that annoyed the crap out of me the first time around. (2) Having my hands in those boxes was so emotionally painful that I felt like I was underwater the entire time I was down there. I couldn’t breathe normally.

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I am not writing my blog right now because I want to spend time with the twins before they leave for their summer plans. I scheduled these posts so the blog wouldn’t be empty, using a random date generator (from random.org) to choose the posts. Having the kids go is still really, really hard. I’ll be back soon.

Last Wednesday night, I was cutting the ChickieNob’s nails before her bath, and I cut her thumb nail too deeply. A dot of blood welled up, and she first started to cry and then changed her mind and looked away from it. She asked her questions as I quickly cut the rest of the nails before I took care of it, trying to keep ahead of the blood which was threatening to run down her thumb. How did I know that the blood was going to stop? And did I think this was a big cut? And have I ever bled before?

Everyone bleeds at some point. Who can even remember all the cuts that seemed important at the time?

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I am not writing my blog right now because I want to spend time with the twins before they leave for their summer plans. I scheduled these posts so the blog wouldn’t be empty, using a random date generator (from random.org) to choose the posts. Having the kids go is still really, really hard. I’ll be back soon.

And the reality is that I have no idea what else is happening, what I don’t know at all, that affects the other person. And I do this knowing full well how many times I have left things unsaid here and had to deal with the types of emails that come in when someone assumes that nothing is up.

Reading the book drove this point home: that we have no idea as we read someone’s blog, as we exchange emails, as we see each other on the street, as we spend time in each other’s houses, the subplot, the hidden story, the words unsaid, the thoughts locked inside the mind that affect the emotions, affect our ability to process an interaction.

Read the whole post here.

I am not writing my blog right now because I want to spend time with the twins before they leave for their summer plans. I scheduled these posts so the blog wouldn’t be empty, using a random date generator (from random.org) to choose the posts. Having the kids go is still really, really hard. I’ll be back soon.

How does anyone get to the level of friend if you don’t start taking those small steps towards one another? Do you need to start placing trust in the person or can you reach the level of “friend” without having that trust tested by being used?

Is friendship always a two-way street? Can someone be a friend in my eyes but I’m an acquaintance in their eyes? And if that is the case, can I still say that we’re friends and treat them as such?

Read the whole post here.

I am not writing my blog right now because I want to spend time with the twins before they leave for their summer plans. I scheduled these posts so the blog wouldn’t be empty, using a random date generator (from random.org) to choose the posts. Having the kids go is still really, really hard. I’ll be back soon.

We sat on a stone bench and watched other groups come into the cemetery and discuss its inhabitants. These ghosts were someone’s children. They may have been someone’s mother or father or sibling. Someone may have sat on this very bench consumed with grief after the person was gone and thought about them as they looked at their gravestone.

It’s sobering to sit in a graveyard, but it may be the only cure to feeling anxious about growing old. Disquiet loves company and sitting in the graveyard plugged me into a continuum of people who have considered their mortality—faced their mortality—and yet still the world turns.

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