...one year.

Happy Blogiversary to me, happy blogiversary to me, happy blogiversary dear I Spy With My Little Eye, happy blogiversary to meeeeee.

One year ago today I made a bit of a deal with myself.  I was going to attempt to write as often as I could or at least as often as the notion struck me.  Everyday, once a week, regularly, sporatically... I didn't know how it would unfold but I would write and I started with this. I surprised myself.  I wrote some stuff that felt genuine and creative.  I was excited to share it and increasingly delighted by the legacy I was creating for my children.  For them to one day read and witness me unfolding as a mother to them.  Today I gave myself a Blogiversary present.  I read my blog.  The whole years worth.  I cried a little, remembered nuances of the last year that I had forgotten, was honoured again as I read the comments that you have left for me... and most surprisingly I didn't cringe...not even a little.  I was actually hanging on every word.  Hungry for more.  Captivated by the honesty of the prose.  Huh?  Who knew?  I was even intrigued and surprised at how the body of work as a whole revealed the transformation of my life over the last year.   How wildly feminine and introspective my "gestational" posts were and how unaplogetically selfish they seemed over the summer.  How my subject matter and focus meandered from one aspect of my life to the next in the months to follow.

I have many more bits and pieces of writing started, in process or scribbled as ideas here and there.  Most of those will never make their way to this place to be read (and reread by me) but they are what keeps the fire stoked, feeds the hunger to create and ultimately nurtures the growth that I long for and realize through this process. 

To me... Yah me.

...a pail full of diapers.

Who knew that I would find all the answers to my life, in this moment, in a pail full of dirty diapers. But as I opened the lid on the diapers today to add another to the pile I noticed it was almost full. Almost time to wash....again. And just before bed last night I had folded and put away the last batch. It is an endless circle. Never the smug satisfaction of having everything tidily finished and put away. It's like a finish line that keeps moving just out of reach. Even though I know that I will never get on top of everything I still feel this burning need to "feel" on top of most things. To have my surroundings tidy and uncluttered, to clear out the junk, check things off the list, put everything away in it's place. But this is just an illusion anyway. Arbitrary at best. Like those diapers in the pail, swishing in the washing machine, snugly wrapped around bum, folded on the shelf... they are all in the middle of a process. No start, no end. Surely I can live more of life in "process".

The only real finish line in life is death and I am certainly in no hurry to get there so I guess "unfinished" will always be my state of being...

...a midnight blogger.

I look forward to a day when I will not be trying to write a new entry for my blog every night and actually achieving my goal every two weeks or so. I have so much I want to write, remember, share... And I have really begun to crave my time at the keyboard. I am always happy when I am creating. I am a knitter, a seamstress, an artist... I love to give handmade gifts. This Christmas it was fairy wings, felted crowns, a knights tunic and scabbard and of course pints and pints of lovely red jam. But I have now discovered that writing falls into this category too. I love to weave a tapestry with words. It fills me up in ways I had no idea it would. For about 10 months I have been writing when I can and wondering if my musings make sense to anyone but me. I have been doubtful that my grammar would pass muster in an English class and am pretty sure that my misuse of vocabulary would make the average linguist cringe. Not to mention my liberal use of non traditional punctuation... and sentence fragments? I decided right from the start that I would write how I am thinking or at least how I would speak so I have stuck to it and it fits.

I struggle with the legitimacy of all of this. I am not a writer. I am just a soulful thinker trying to put my thoughts into words. And when I can steal the chance I tap them out on this keyboard. Almost always it is at or near the witching hour because that is when my house is sleeping, my work is as done as it's going to be for the night and I can briefly turn my attention inward to see what is bubbling up and trying to get out. Often the tap, tap, tapping at my keyboard wakes the babe sleeping next to me and I stop for a nurse. Sometimes the break gives me a chance to let my mind shuffle the chaos into something readable. It isn't glamorous, my nightshirt often wet with breast milk and my snack of chocolate buttons and a glass of water is hardly romantic. Maybe that is what keeps it real.

And although I crave to write more and more often I am pretty happy with my midnight blogging. The things keeping me from being here more often are precious to me too.

And I have decided to let myself be a writer. I'm tired of feeling like a fake so I've decided that I'm not.

...a renewal.

Six and a half years ago I was sitting on the precipice of my plunge into motherhood. Hovering in that knife-edge place between mother and maiden. I didn't have any clue what that first baby would have in store for me. What she would teach me. Whom I would become as I was reborn a mother. I don't know if I fully know now as I look back. Too much of what unfolded in those first weeks, months and even years remains in a bit of a fog... But I think she was my baby of grounding. Not that she was grounded... No way! She was my flexible baby. Would sleep anywhere, could stay up til midnight and sleep in the next day. We travelled with her, partied with her, shopped with her...basically we towed her along on every wild adventure we could. But slowly she tamed us. And I became a very, very capable mother... Oh who am I fooling? I became a bit type-a like I am with everything I did. If I couldn't do it to "perfection" then I didn't bother. And I couldn't throw in the towel on this one so I had to get it right! I cloth diapered her little bottom and laundered them myself. I made all her baby food and froze it in perfectly portioned cubes. I read to her, took her to music class, taught her sign language... I wasn't trying to be the "perfect" mother. I was just trying to get really good at my job. Meg taught me how to be a mother. And for that I will always be grateful. She was a great teacher. Yielding, yet firm. And clear about her expectations most of the time. We became a good team and I got good at my job. It didn't always look pretty but it always got done.

Today I had the overwhelming sense that Lola is my baby of renewal. Or perhaps of awakening. Although this has been happening over the last few years I feel like Lola was the piece to this puzzle that I was missing. Like a catalyst for a big plunge deeper into my youthful spirit. I want to play more and work less. I want to sing and dance and create. And it's not as though I haven't always been that way. But this feels more like a living, breathing, dynamic, undeniable, passionate force working through me. Its a beast, whose insatiable hunger for growth and creation is only matched by its insatiable hunger for chocolate! My conversations feel more alive. My body feels more.... full. And sometimes I feel like I am spinning in a vortex over which I have no control so I spin freely and try not to fight too hard. Sometimes I even will the spinning to accelerate. What the hell, if the ride is gonna make you dizzy then you might as well do it large.

I wrote this a few days ago and now as I reflect on it maybe I have it all wrong. In fact I was tempted to delete and edit the entire first paragraph. It feels stilted and inaccurate. It feels like I was searching for something and never quite found it... and that is why I left it. That was me I suppose. I had spent a long time crafting the persona I portrayed to the world. And in one psyche shattering event I didn't know which way was up let alone who I was supposed to be now. But what I think now is that maybe neither Meg nor Lola had any specific thing to teach me or reveal to me. Maybe it is just about shedding one more layer to reach my true authentic self. Maybe with the birth of each baby I have just rendered myself more transparent. Found more of who I am. But not the kind of finding that happens after you lose something. The kind of finding that happens when you never knew it was there to find. You know what I mean? Perhaps that is why it feels like Lola has revealed to me my more youthful spirit. After all, our most authentic selves are the ones unencumbered by our domestication. How lovely that we get to experience our youthful spirits again as we age. Some of our filters are shed with each layer too. And we are able to express ourselves more fully and with less inhibition. And with the added grace of our maturity........ and hopefully our wisdom.