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Thankful

We’re selling our house.  And no one is buying it.

I’m not sure if you know what it feels like to deep clean your home at a moment’s notice with a screaming banshee toddler strapped to your calf, but it feels exactly like deep cleaning your home at a moment’s notice.  With a toddler strapped to your calf.

I’ve been dancing this waltz for more than my fair share of weeks now and each night I go to bed and ask God the same question: “Why won’t somebody buy our house?”  (I also stick with my go to prayer that I’ve been praying since I was twelve: Dear God, please make make my chest bigger.   I’ll let you know when He hears me).

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Follow Through

I started a writer’s workshop in my area last night.  It’s actually the same writer’s workshop I had started right before getting pregnant but then life smacked me around a bit and I was too busy changing diapers to worry about changing voice in a novel manuscript.  Sure, I’m a little black and blue but the bruises are healing and I’ve decided to keep life from bullying me once and for all.  I’m ready to take charge.

But if I just dusted off my hands and called it a day, I’d know I’d be lying to myself.  The truth is, it’s never been easy for me to take on something new and see it through to fruition.   I’ve often been known to be in the business of starting things but not necessarily finishing them.  Volleyball camp sophomore year?  Sweating and I don’t get along. Working at Target for two days during college?  Red really isn’t my color.  The blogging network I started several months ago?  Um, managing stuff is hard.

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My Calling

I don’t have a bountiful womb.  Or maybe I do.  The point is I’m not hell bent on finding out.

I’ve wanted to write since I was twelve-years-old.  It’s never been a choice of whether I wanted to or not.  I have to write just like I have to wear a bra with extra padding or pretend I’m not checking myself out in the full-length mirror at the mall when I totally am.  Breathing, eating, taking a peaceful bathroom break, one in which my toddler doesn’t insist on blowing bye-bye kisses to “mommy’s poo poo,” don’t even begin to compare to the feeling of building sky high cities and breaking them down one key stroke at a time.

But children have a way of freezing your fingers and keeping the page painfully, shamefully blank.

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The Small Stuff

I sometimes have this sinking suspicion that God hates me.

You know the feeling, you’re at a party, forced to talk to that woman you don’t like and every time she says you look great in that particular shade of vermillion all you really hear is “You look like you’ve gained weight.  And your husband’s a total tool.”

Sometimes, I think God and this woman are best hair braiding buddies.

This is the thing: I know I get negative far too often.  I’m the type of person that spills the dog food and feels compelled to smack things around on the counter until my husband asks if I’m practicing for some sort of percussion recital.  I make my grief known and if I could clamber up the side of my house without killing myself, I’d probably shout it from the rooftop.  This is not a side of myself I particularly like.