Things That Are True - Why I Write Here

As I mentioned in my last post, I've been thinking a fair amount about why I blog. I've attended blogging events, learned a lot about what blogging means to other people, and wrestled with what blogging means to me. I've considered going the route of seeking PR pitches, doing giveaways and reviewing products in this space. Who doesn't want free goodies? I've read with some envy about blogger-freebie events that others have been invited to. Who doesn't want a free trip or spa day? I've thought about what it would take to really promote my blog as a brand, and I've struggled with posting regularly enough to build traffic and be considered for that kind of attention.

But here's the thing - it's just not me.

I write because I can't not write. I don't write often, and often I don't write well, but I can't not write.

For as long as I can remember, I've been a letter writer and a journal keeper, with the same sort of sporadic output as I've had here on my blog so far. I have boxes of old notebooks filled with no doubt mortifying-to-almost-40-year-old-me rants, raves, and anguish filled entries about boys (later men), school (later work), goals, to-do-lists, and passions, however transitory.

Me, Grade 8. Also transitory: fashion.

Those notebooks are the repository of my dreams, however ridiculous, unrealistic, or embarrassing they might be. In rereading some of them, I'm shocked at what 17 year old me had to say about homosexuality, amused by what 22 year old me thought was important in a guy, and embarrassed at the depths of wisdom I spouted about turning a whole quarter of a century old. (Depths so shallow you'd crack your skull open if you tried to dive in.)

But I meant those words at the time. Meant them fervently.

As fervently as I now wish I'd never owned that shirt. Me at 17.

As I get older I tend to forget that I haven't always looked at the world the way I do now. I forget how desperately in love I was with that guy in highschool, the one who didn't know I existed. (And who now, frankly, I'd be embarrassed to be seen with. Facebook can be very good for affirming your life's choices. Yikes.) And it's easy to forget how extraordinarily important little moments can be, both good and bad. Things I don't even remember now that rocked me to my knees as they were happening.

Me at 24. It seems I never did quite get the hang of a hairdo. Also: really? Tie-dye?

Now, as a parent, I'm glad I still have this written record of the passions, angst, and injustices of my childhood, teen, and early adult years. I hope it will remind me, as The Imp grows in and out of the various stages of life, that perception is fluid, that perspectives change, and that yes, he does truly, achingly feel like missing that party will literally end any chance at happiness for the rest of his life. I hope I can look at those snapshots of my younger-self feelings and, after chuckling to myself, still be respectful of his. He's a lot like me; I'm sure his passions will be just as fiery as mine were - and still are. No matter how embarrassing they might be.

But here's another thing: not all of them are embarrassing. I can remember writing several times from the age of about 15 until as recently as my early thirties about how I wanted to get a good camera and learn to take proper pictures instead of unsatisfactory snapshots. It's a recurring theme in my notes to myself. And while I certainly wouldn't call myself a photographer, this space, this very public yet somehow very intimate space, has allowed me to start another blog, filled with photographs I have taken myself.

I also wrote repeatedly and with great longing about wanting to sing, and to learn to play guitar, and to write songs. All of which I've done. Maybe not well, maybe not often, but I've done them. Every night at bedtime, The Imp and I sing our goodnight song, a little tune that came to me in the hazy hours of mid-night breastfeeding. I wrote that, and The Imp asks for it every night.

And the photography and the music, and the writing, oh the writing, have been my solace.

The sleepless night of a highschool broken heart has been replaced by the sleepless night of a feverish toddler. The teenage angst about a boy has been replaced by the complicated business of being married to a man. The goals (go to Paris, buy a guitar, get a job) have been replaced by different goals (go to Paris again, buy another guitar, start my own business). But the writing remains.

And when I can put aside the business of life to post here, I will. And I hope you'll come back to read once in a while.

The schedule: sporadic.
The posts: honest, as real as my limited skill can make them, and probably embarrassing to my 60-year-old self.
Also: there will be swearing.

And so be it.

Me at almost 40, and finally comfortable with who I am.

Things I've Learned - The Big Boy Bed

The past two weeks of parenting have been the most challenging since The Imp was newborn, fresh out of the womb, and I was completely overwhelmed with the not-knowing newness of it all.

I blame the Big Boy Bed.

Looks fairly innocuous, doesn't it? His crib mattress on the floor, the same blankets and bedtime pals...

NOT SO.

And we thought the electrical outlet would be our biggest headache... such optimism! We safetied it beyond all reasonable measures; not only is there a child-proof cover on it, beneath the cover is electrical tape covering the outlets as well. All our work notwithstanding, this corner of The Imp's bedroom is a lurking pit of evil.

It has turned my complacent crib-sleeping toddler into the most magnificently maleficent perpetrator of angst-causing, sleep-depriving NAUGHTY LITTLE BOY behaviour, including but not limited to: bedtime escape attempts by the dozen nightly, jumping on the bed instead of sleeping, attempting to climb the pulled-out dresser drawers, thereby dragging the entire dresser and all its contents down on himself, dumping out his giant container of mega-blocks in the middle of the night leaving parental foot arch slaying land mines in our path, slamming doors at 3am just for fun, and running to the kitchen to open the fridge, spill the milk, and eat unwashed strawberries (stems and all) at 5am.

Two weeks ago, on Good Friday (good! ha!) The Imp managed to climb out of his crib for the first time and blew his dismount, falling on his head. Being the fearless little daredevil that he is, he is not one to view a mere bruise in the middle of his forehead as any kind of deterrent.

No.

No, The Imp of the Perverse views anything less than losing a limb as a challenge.

We dismantled the crib immediately to forestall the concussion/brain injury that was sure to follow. Little did we know that our little monkey was only a "good sleeper" because he'd been held CAPTIVE in his crib all this time.

The lure of freedom has proven to be too much for him. He cannot avoid its siren call.

I am exhausted.

And apparently it's not appropriate to put your child in a dog cage, no matter how large or lavishly appointed. I asked on twitter and the response was not positive.

I have a lovely sheepskin deal we could put in there...

No?

Damn.

Any hints or suggestions on how to ease this transition? Or even just an I've-been-there-too story from the trenches?

Halp!