I kind of already committed to failing at NaBloPoMo on Twitter tonight, and I know that sentence is horribly arranged but I hated it the proper way and that's why I'm toying with the idea of NaBloPoMo and not NaNoWriMo. Also because I'm not in Denver with my National Wine Drinking While We Claim to be Writing Novels Month partners Andy and David.
I'm laying in my bed dousing myself in all the oatmeal based lotion I can get my dry, cracking hands on because I'm totally allergic to everything about Arizona, and sometimes this presents in my sinuses, but sometimes it present on my forearms, which right now look like they survived the zombie war. I've starting itching on the inside. Like, my internal organs itch. It is the most awful thing I've ever felt, and I've had three people pry their way out of my lady bits.
So I'm laying in bed itching and itching and lubing and itching and all I can think is that I should be writing a post because I can't be that jerk who doesn't fail because they don't try, can I? I miss blogging, really. In January this puppy will turn eight, and I am finding that year seven has been the toughest blogging year yet, partly because I've said everything at least once already, maybe a little bit because I get distracted by tweety objects, but mostly because they kids, they are growing. They are hard to write about. They are hard to parent.
It's a good kind of hurt, don't get me wrong. I wouldn't trade it for the world but right now I have a 14 year old without a bedroom door because he decided, once again, to have a dick-swinging contest with me and if I know any one thing about raising kids it's that I cannot, for one second, show weakness or they will exploit it to their ultimate gain. All I've got protecting my position over here is my grandmother's conch and a philips head screwdriver.
I've been thinking a lot about all the things I don't talk about in this space - deep, personal issues that stem far beyond my relationships with my kids, my family, or my loved ones. I haven't really talked at all about the things that make me the me I am today, my foundation, my core believes, fears, and opinions. I can't imagine that sharing any of that would leave me any more vulnerable that everything I've shared in the past seven years and ten months has, but for some reason the ideology scares me more than the actuality.
Maybe it's because I am a Pisces and it's really hard for us to say what we feel. It's really hard for us to decide what we think. We make for terrible dates.
Maybe it's smart - I've always said that I've held back hose last layers of me for my book I will never write, sorry nice agent lady, and in theory that's an incredibly savvy plan I accidentally hatched, except that this is the forum I am most comfortable in and I don't know if I have enough for both of them. This is my home, and you all are the neighbors I'll have over for beer and guitar around the fire pit while we talk about our lives' paths. If anyone is going to hear about the crazy cult or my hood pass, it's going to be you. And yet, I can't bring myself to do it. I can't say those words yet.
Einstein said once, "If you can't explain it simply, you don't understand it." I can't explain me simply. I can't explain my children simply. I can't explain a whole lot of what is going on in the world simply right now, and that makes me realize that I really just don't know jack yet, but I'm itching to.
Or maybe it's the desert pollen.