A super sweet and beautiful woman sat in my styling chair yesterday and mentioned how glad she is that I’m blogging again.
I told her that sometimes I don’t think there’s much to write about, but if I just make myself sit in front of my laptop, I’ll find out what’s inside.
So it turns out that pockets of quiet are becoming more possible in the evenings! YAY!
If there’s anything I miss about blogging, it’s figuring out how I really feel about life. Would you believe that after writing such a raw post about my father’s abandonment, the thing that got me most wound up was the part about my brother? I had no idea I was angry until I was literally typing it out, all twitchy, trying not to shake. I love my Joey. Actually, I love my Shmoey Oey Joey. That’s what I call him.
If you must know, yes. Yes, I did hang my life-size Christmas advent tree up before Halloween this year.
“Why?” you ask.
Because I had a perfectly good nail on the wall, just wasting his gifts and talents, waiting for the opportunity to transform from eyesore to awesome. You all know me and Christmas. (If you don’t, they don’t call me the Christmas Kraken for nothing. You’ll never see candy canes the same again, here.) It’s over the top. The last three years though? Not so much. This will be the first year in a while that I’m A) not moving a salon out of my kitchen and into a garage, B) not nauseous and pregnant, or C) not exhausted with a nursing baby. With 24 pockets hanging on the wall, waiting to be filled with inspiration, wonder and meaningful intention, little did I realize I’d be struck most soberly moving into this holiday season.
Somewhere between mulling over Christmas caroling and family service opportunities, it hit me. It finally hit me. My oldest is finally five. I was five. I knew this day would come, I just didn’t realize it’d come so quickly.