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I must admit, I’m still concerned. I was writing everyday and now I’m not. I’m looking for something to blame, but I’m coming up dry. I am about to return to work full time (oh, the bitter agony) which concerns me even more. I am afraid I’ll revert into a dried up piece of nothingness.

(Eckhart Tolle would be so disappointed with my attitude. No, that is a lie. Tolle wouldn’t blink an eye at my attitude because he would recognize my drive to create as a symptom of my ego and instead of concentrating on my obsessiveness he would just be “being”. How truly, syrupy, sweet.)

So, I’m trying to be proactive. I am taking a step to counteract this regressive process. I am going to write about all of the things that I have intended to write about, but haven’t. I am hoping that this will kick me into gear. (Please, oh please, divine spirit, grant me the gift of creativity so I may continue on my merry literary way…)

Things I have been meaning to write about in no particular order:

(Note to committed reader: I may still write about these things. If I pique your interest, stay tuned. If I fail to pique your interest, well, honestly, go F*%$ yourself.)

(I’m sorry about that explosive bit of aggression. It was a product of my unconscious ego.)

(I’m sorry for saying that bit about the unconscious ego. I’m not making fun of Eckhart Tolle even if I seem like I might be making fun of him. If I’ve offended you, I hope you still like me.)

(I am taking back that bit about you liking me. It doesn’t matter whether or not you like me. The beauty of my essence has little to do with your opinion of me. I am thoroughly unattached to your opinions. A fellow blogger, Tata, seems to have begun to master this concept in creating her Beautiful Like Me blog. You can check her out at http://www.imnotbeautifullikeyou.com Love her. She has been very kind to me. )

(I never intended my entire post to be published in bold letters. But, this Godforsaken program won’t let me unbold what I never actually bolded myself even though I know HTML and tried to use it to my advantage.)

Now, back to…

Things I have been meaning to write about in no particular order:

I’ve been wanting to write about the time that my son was shrieking like a mentally disturbed banshee-man in his crib. He wouldn’t sleep. He wouldn’t sleep. Then I remembered that his beloved blankie was hidden in his hamper because it smelled like sour milk and piss. When I couldn’t take the screaming anymore, I army crawled through his room, uncovered the missing blankie, despite its apparent toxicity, and made a blind blankie toss into his crib so he wouldn’t see me and then crawled back out again. Shortly thereafter he fell asleep. I wanted to discuss all the ridiculous things we do as parents in order to appease our youngins. I planned to entitle the post “Operation Blankie” but I never got around to it.

I’ve wanted to write about sleep. I’ve wanted to write about how I scoffed at all the people who told me to sleep while the baby slept and how I would never see sleep the same way again, how I would crave sleep like I crave a good piece of dark chocolate. I intended to share with you all my early experiences with night time feeding. How I cherished those quiet, blissful hours. How I only cherished them because I believed, truly believed, with all of my naive heart, that Silas would be sleeping through the night by four months. Ha, ha. Triple, ha-ha-ha.

I’ve also wanted to write about neonatal ideals. About parenting books and magazines and clubs and email groups. About how they can be almost as shitty and devastating as the “How to Make Him Like You” and “Ten Beauty Secrets of the Top Teen Models” articles in Teen Magazine when you are trying desperately and without success to be an attractive and popular fourteen year old. About how parenting in theory is nothing like parenting in real life. And about how I have found myself shopping at Sam’s Club, weaning before one year, using a pacifier, accepting an epidural, administering Mylicon, and Tylenol, and Baby Motrin and finally antibiotics when Silas was hopelessly, frightfully sick and we were scared and felt we had no other recourse. And, about how that doesn’t make me a bad mother… even when I give Silas 100% watered down pear juice that is from friggin’ concentrate and isn’t flippin’ organic!

I also wanted to write about how damned political parenting has become. How it feeds our already inflated need to be perfect and is terribly, obsessively self-absorbed.

Oh wait! Back to sleep and speaking of dreams of perfection. I’ve wanted to write about why I never did sleep when the baby slept. It was simply because I was acting psycho and trying to prove that I was some sort-of superhuman entity even though I am not. I’m just a regular human person with an insatiable drive toward over achievement. The over achievement does not make me happy and often leaves me craving more. So, I’ve wanted to let you know that my restlessness was either a product of my blatant bipolarism or an expression of the collective flaw of the human condition. Or, both. (Probably both.)

I’ve also wanted to write about my fears about placing Silas in day care. About my search for day care centers and about the creepy, ucky, disturbing visions I had after visiting several home day cares. I especially wanted to write about how the caretakers in Silas’s new “facility” probably won’t refer to Silas as “waking up boy” when they get him from his nap, probably won’t sing and dance to the new Medeski, Martin, and Wood kid’s CD, and how they definitely won’t be taking Silas for romps in the woods. I’ve wanted to write about how I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle eight hours away from him.

In addition, I’ve wanted to write about Silas’s invented games, about my new obsession with jogging, about the social studies Praxis (teacher licensing) test that I studied and studied and studied for and probably failed, about the time we rushed Silas to the emergency room and how his being ill reminded me of my sister, Eliza, who died of leukemia when she was two years old and about how, even eighteen years after her death, I am still irreparably wounded, and about my friend Melisa who is always reading my blog and reading it aloud to others and doing her damned best to support me (to the extent that she can write no poem except those in which I am her primary subject) and is also raising two wonderful children, and about my parents, and my in-laws, and my fears, and my books, and my fear of flying.

Or even just about how I drink too much wine. (It’s true. I do.)

Oh yes, I have wanted to write.

And thank God, I just did.

(Pat on back.)And, good night.

This entry was posted on Monday, August 4th, 2008 at 10:55 pm and is filed under On Writing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.