Here I sit, watching my more-or-less sleeping children on the monitor during their nap time, typing words into this little box with big words above staring me down: “Add New Post.”
I stopped blogging a year and a half ago to take a few-month maternity break. Then I realized I had nothing to say in this space. I wasn’t a blogger anymore.
But here I am again with words and at least half-formed thoughts and maybe a blog post or two in mind (which mostly began as rants that were too long for a Facebook status).
I don’t know what kind of blogger I am. Originally, I wanted this to be a place of art and theology, of big ideas and beauty and the sort of discussions you might have in a seminary forum or a coffee shop with people wearing black berets.
I never wanted to be a mommy blogger, but I’m a mommy, so I suppose in some way, I’m a mommy blogger. (Side note: I never wanted to live in the suburbs, but here I am, and don’t tell anyone, but it’s not the worst. Mostly, I love my little suburb and am constantly maintaining why we shouldn’t move, though my husband always wants to move, unless we’re going to move to Rum Cay, in which case, I can pack our bags in two suitcases and be ready in a half hour.)
So I’ve embraced the suburbs, and I’ve embraced the minivan. I am a suburb-dwelling wife of one and mother of (almost) three. I have a vegetable garden teeming with weeds, I rarely go to coffee shops anymore because chasing after two toddlers isn’t conducive to conversation, and I don’t have the energy to read the foreign film subtitles at night anymore.
On Tuesday evenings, I dash on a bit of make-up (sometimes), leave Chris to sort out dinners and baths and bedtime, and I teach a discipleship class, pretending to be a fully functioning adult with fully functioning ideas. Then I return home, stumble over a toy or two, turn a blind eye to the day’s dishes, and cuddle with my husband while we watch House Hunters International. In the afternoons, I put the kids in for their naps and hide in the office, jotting a line or two of a short story or studying Scripture. Then they wake up, and I take up maracas and dance around the house with them.
It occurs to me that all of this–a quiet moment snatched in prayer, a nap time indulged in sermon preparation or in a short story, scrubbing vomit out of a favorite stuffed animal, singing with toddlers, figuring out what to make for dinner, sneaking a good morning kiss in bed with my husband while the little ones attack us–all of it worships God.
This is my kingdom living. This is L’Chaim. This is my blog.
(I’ll try to leave out the bits with vomit.)
In my life, I accept:
- my thoughts happen in fractions,
- the laundry will most likely never be folded and put away,
- a layer of dust protects my furniture,
- Play Doh flakes and food crumbles litter my kitchen floor even though I mopped in the morning,
- over the next few years, my children will eat lots of hot dogs, Kraft mac-n-cheese and goldfish (although we do eat lots of fruits and veggies as well!),
- the toys create an obstacle course that makes Home Alone look amateur,
- I read less, write less and knit less
- and instead play with lots of trains and baby dolls and puzzles and maracas,
- I am clueless about indie music and films (and the Oscar’s and Grammy’s, for that matter), and
- my life is still about big thoughts and beauty and deep intellectual discussions–just without the big words.
So ends my sabbatical. I suppose we’ll meander together through the marked trails and sometimes the underbrush of life. And in this world, I begin again.