I texted my husband and said that I really wish I could just hunker down and write. I was feeling inspired by quality time with beautiful humans and a deep red Cabernet and I just wanted to spill words on a page and have them mean something. I looked back at my history, knowing it had been a long time, and realized 9 whole months had passed since my last post. I could have grown another human in the time I had waited to hit publish. I’ve written hundreds of entries in my head during that time but nothing beats the words in black and white. I reflect on this space while I run my credit card for another cycle of rights to the domain.
Are you going to write a blog post? He asks innocently as I swiftly kiss his cheek and grab my laptop after walking through the door. I don’t know, I reply, but I need to write something. I sit down in my bed with a glass of water and a few ibuprofen and an alarm on my phone goes off. “Go to sleep” it reads at 9:30 p.m. and I smile that sleepy morning Trish set the alarm knowing full well that night Trish wouldn’t give a fuck it a second thought before snoozing.
I look ahead at this week’s schedule and add in “basketball practice” knowing full well the people signed up for it will see it as some sort of personal attack. I look at the tabs open in my browser and get a glimpse into what my brain feels like on a daily basis. I’m simultaneously googling how to get rid of neck wrinkles and searching for the meaning of life while trying to remember to be happy and find joy in small moments. I know the demand shifts and changes over time but right now I feel like a music box running out of batteries. I’m spinning but the song is off-key and making those weird alien noises to try to keep up appearances.
We balance the load of work and the demands of career ambition with the literal loads of laundry and the allure of maintaining a social life. The world feels so heavy and so silly all at once and I stare at a tiny screen in my hand asking it to entertain me and also give me a recipe for ground beef that will free us from another night of pasta.
Are you going to write a blog post?
What can I even say or offer that will compete with the onslaught of perfectly curated feeds with links to things that I’ll only be trying to offload on Facebook Marketplace in 6-9 months because I’m drowning in clutter? I text a friend and say “It just feels different this year” and they immediately reply with YES it does and I don’t feel as guilty for failing to find the magic in the season. I miss my mom and my kids are desperate for a break from school and while I love the twinkle of the Christmas tree, what we really need is connection. Things feel heavy and frustrating and then I step on a tiny Lego piece from a long-forgotten project and I wonder if anyone will even notice if I throw it away. The other night I was finishing dinner and searching for clean kids’ bowls but I couldn’t find any because they were all filled with kinetic sand so I thought maybe the real MVP here was the paper plate and more time to snuggle on the couch before bed.
Mom, can we do a craft?
I stared at my 6-year-old as he hung his head in his hands. You’re always rushing, he says. I feel like he knocked me over with a ton of bricks. I’m trying to cook dinner and change clothes while unloading backpacks before rushing out the door to a meeting for a volunteer committee and he stares at me with these eyes that say I’m doing it all wrong. I’m rushing from here to there and the in-between is filled with pleading requests to just do the things I asked them to do the first time before I lose my mind. I squeeze in hugs and kisses in case I miss bedtime and his sweet hand signs “I love you” and fits it into mine and even if I’m doing a lot wrong, I feel like I got that part right. I feel a twinge of guilt as I take a deep breath in my car because it’s quiet here and maybe for just a moment I can be the only one I’m responsible for.
Are those presents real?! Did Santa come?
My four-year-old comes barreling into the bathroom with a look of pure joy as he questions the freshly wrapped packages under the tree. Yes they are real and no Santa did not just drop a small fortune on Christmas spirit wrapped in snowmen in the middle of December but I’m sure he’ll swing by next week and take credit for the roller skates you always wanted. His joy is infectious and though he’s itching to rip open the goods, the anticipation of it all has him buzzing around the room. He sprints off to open a package of Pop-Tarts before remembering that he doesn’t actually like them and then sneaks off to hide toys in his backpack before begging for chocolate milk. I don’t have the energy to tell him his pants are on backwards so I scoop him up and we go to daycare where he hugs me goodbye more times than I can count. He reminds me that feeling that much love is more than I could ever ask for.
Will you be home before bed?
My eight-year-old whispers to me as I lace up my shoes and kiss his head. He comes up to my shoulder now and as I lean down I know the days are fleeting before I’m staring UP at him and begging for affection. I’m not sure, I reply, but we’ll see okay? Okay, he shrugs, can I play the switch? Just like that he’s buried in building a world I’ll never understand and I’m running out the door to meet friends. We’ll have drinks and talk about all of the joys and struggles and I’ll remember that at each stage of life, we all fight the same battles. How do we love ourselves while loving our people?
I drive home and play one of my favorite sad songs and tears stream down my cheeks while the words sink deep into my soul. I wipe the tears from my eyes as I pull into the driveway. I grab my laptop and kiss my husband as I turn to go upstairs. Are you going to write a blog post? he asks. I’m not sure I have anything to say, I think.
Until next time,
-T-
