People often ask me what my boundaries are, when it comes to the blog. Generally, I adhere to sort of a two-drink rule: is it information I’d offer up at a dinner party to an acquaintance after two glasses of Pinot Grigio?
If it’s something that wouldn’t come out until three or four glasses, I tend to steer clear. One to two glasses, though, yeah— chances are good it might find its way to the blog.
Despite the name, I’ve never thought of this as a mama blog, not really. With the girls getting older all the darn time, and their privacy as nifty people more and more important, well, this blog’s focus will definitely evolve. It’s already evolving, though I’d be hard-pressed to articulate its evolution in any sort of intelligent fashion.
Brain stroganoff, overcooked. With so much going on, my gray matter has liquefied. Stand back, I might leak on your shoes.
This morning, I took the girls to school and forgot the way home. (Don’t worry, I remembered eventually. There are only two major roads where I live; I was bound to figure it out sooner or later.)
I happen to believe in some sort of God. I’m not a church-goer (or a synagogue-goer, anymore), but God and I, we chat. We do. This reassures my mother. I keep asking the Big Holy Whatever to clue me in, point me in the right direction, make His/Her road signs more readable. He/She has terrible handwriting. No offense, God, but you do. Or I need new glasses.
With all that’s going on, I think a lot about heart stuff these days: how relationships go awry, how hearts break and mend and break and mend over and over, how love appears in the strangest guises and places and can disappear just as quickly, and whether love and infatuation are buddies who go to the movies together, or enemies who scrawl mean things about each other on the bathroom stalls at the mall. I think it’s funny that God gave us hearts that are all about quality, not quantity—and then gave us a gigantic lifespan of 80-some years to ponder that. If that’s not divine mystery, I don’t know what is.
I think about my girls and their sweet little hearts. I wonder whom they will love, who will break their hearts first, whom I will find seated at my Thanksgiving dinner table in 20 years. I think about Thanksgiving dinner a lot. The holiday is why I was pretty darn sure I wanted kids, just to make life interesting on Thanksgiving. I like watching the Macy’s Parade and the Purina One Dog Show, but it’s more fun with other folks around. I like the thought of the girls tromping home with various people in tow, maybe a few babies or kids and a Porta-Crib. I don’t cook well, but the thought of future Thanksgivings motivates me.
But now I don’t know what “home” looks like. I can’t picture it, how it will look in 20 years. I’m just hoping I can find my way there.
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