My middle child, Charlotte, is two-and-a-half. In fact, she may be the most two-and-a-half two-and-a-half year old I think I’ve ever encountered. Among her many current charms is a complete inability to make a decision. She’ll waffle between two choices, physically moving toward one and then the other, doing a sort of side-step Charleston, before giving up and flinging herself down on the floor and wailing in distress.
One of the first things the editors of this website asked us contributors to do is write a short introductory post. So, amidst the side-stepping wailing yesterday, I spent several hours crafting an epic post, much longer than the editors requested, filled with drama and gore and some profound insight. The only problem was that, midway into my opus, I put it aside and began again. And again. And again.
I finally gave up after six hours at the computer, dissatisfied with all that I hadn’t written and, frustrated at my complete failure to produce anything readable, laid my head down on the desk and cried. Cue wine and chocolate.
It occurred to me this morning, though, that actually, Charlotte’s little indecision dance may be all the introduction that you need to me and to what I’ll be writing about here. Most days I can’t decide if I want to be a Mommy or if I just want my Mommy. Most days I think my husband (he’s called the Ogre) is the most wonderful man alive, but some days liking him is a decision I have to grit my teeth and make. Some days I fancy myself a pretty decent writer and some days I read real writers and promptly swear off blogging forever. In favor of chocolate. Which no one in the world is better at eating than I am. Some days I form pretty decent, coherent arguments about important subjects, but mostly… and sometimes I think more importantly… I just write about finding moments of grace when I’m up to my elbows in diapers and laundry.
So maybe you’re wondering why the editors of this fine website would want a contributor who’s not too prolific in any one subject, who’s really just trying to work out her own salvation in fear and trembling, and who sometimes gives up and just puts a bendy straw in the wine bottle.
And I think that, well, it’s because aren’t we all?