It's Time

I know. It's like I fell off the face of the earth again. Actually, I fell into writing my novel. Like I totally wrote and wrote and rewrote and rewrote.  And while I wrote I felt incredibly guilty because I had kids running around somewhere. I was pretty sure I did, anyway. It was all rather vague and blurry as far as that went. Because I was writing.

While I was writing, the house fell apart.  The laundry piled up, as did the dishes. The food rotted in the refrigerator. The dust grew thick. The cobwebs invaded. The trash spilled over. You get the idea.

The children did not bathe.  They played video games all day. They ate corn with a spoon out of a can and called it dinner. They grew taller. Older. Different. And yet I kept writing.

Why?

I don't know. But today is Mother's Day, and I'm reminded again that if everything in the world were to be titrated down into the only thing that mattered to me, it would be these five little souls skittering about, growing up, forming opinions...shaping the world.  They're everything to me. Even on the days when my mind has chosen to hole itself up with far less interesting make-believe people.

Sometimes I thought about blogging. But then I'd quickly become overwhelmed.  There was just So Much Going On.  All of it was blogworthy. Where to start? Nowhere. So I didn't.

Jasper had a birthday. Joel shaved his head. Ellie made travel plans. Brain surgery was scheduled for Jules. Camille auditioned for a dance ensemble. Women watched (many idly) their rights slip away while their men stood silent. Rick Santorum happened. Then he un-happened. North Carolina did what it did. And Obama did what he did. Mitt Romney forgot about bullying a gay boy - it was just something teenagers did, after all. I was accosted at a stoplight over my Obama bumper sticker and came home and peeled it off. Trayvon Martin was murdered. I went to a Jane's Addiction concert.

All of the above? Blogworthy. But I was busy writing escapism romance. Apparently, people (women, in particular) need a little bit of that. 

And then the Time Cover happened. And I really wanted to blog about that. But everyone else has already done it. I spent an entire decade of my life breastfeeding. And I breastfed toddlers, usually standing up, because that is how they roll. In fact, if I were younger, blonder, and thirty pounds lighter, that could be me on the cover.  In my head I looked every bit as bad-ass as the chick on the cover of Time Magazine. Making food with your own body is sort of a super human power, after all.  In fact, when the children come to me asking for the occasional this or that, and I tell them I'm writing and they should ask their father, and they say they asked their father and he's busy and said they should ask me, I'll sometimes say, "Tell Daddy I used to make food for you with my very own body. He can certainly wash a bowl of grapes."

The Time picture has started a flurry of Blogger Activity.  The child is too old! It's abuse! Um, no he isn't and it's not. More people than you realize are closet nursers of Not Really So Tiny Children. I bet you ten bucks you know some. They're just not doing it in front of you.  Unless, that is, they belong to one of the zillions of cultures of people who nurse children beyond infancy. I don't really think that's the problem with the picture, though.

People (men) like their breastfeeding women to resemble the Virgin Mary Whist Feeding the Baby Jesus.  That's the only way they can justify such a blatant misuse of tits mammary glands. If a woman dares to bare it and feed whilst looking all bad-ass and Distinctly Un-Virginal and feeding a toddler way too big to fit in the Christmas Nativity Scene ...it causes all sorts of uncomfortable feelings....quite possibly in the nether regions.  And there is to be no mingling between nurturing and nether regions.  The fact that women are talented, multi-dimensional, multi-taskers SHOULD equate to their breasts being so, as well, but men some people would prefer that breasts and their purposes proceed along in a linear fashion...as in now they're sexy, now they're matronly and nurturing, and now they're sexy again...not willy nilly sexy/nurturing all at the same time. The reason for this is simple: People are massively screwed up when it comes to sex, feminism, and did I say sex? Yes.

Speaking of sex and things that set the blogosphere abuzz: Fifty Shades of Grey.  If I see one more word about it I'm going to set my hair on fire.  Unless, of course, it's on my Very Own Brand Spanking New Writer's Blog.  The one where I'm going to break the First Cardinal Rule of Unpublished Writer's Blogs and criticize a published writer.  The only thing holding me back is the fact that I haven't a name for my new blog.  I'd appreciate any suggestions you might have.  And by the way, all witty little titles incorporating the word "write" have already been used. 

I'll draw a winner from the people who send me suggestions, and that lucky winner will receive his or her very own copy of Haruki Murakami's novel, Kafka on the Shore.  I will never criticize Murakami. Because he is perfect in every way. Every single way. 

If you've never entered a contest of this nature before, now is a good time to do so.  I suspect you might be the only one who responds, and this greatly increases your odds of winning. 

As soon as I have a Blog Name - you will be able to read my thoughts on Shades of Grey, the BDSM Erotica novel you've seen, oddly enough, gracing the shelves of your local neighborhood Costco.

You guys were my guilty pleasure today.  I'll try not to stay away so long next time.
Sardine Mama