Seriously guys, how cute are my kids? Right? I know. I made them, so…
Wait, that’s not what this post is about. This train of thought began when I was like “Oh I should share the Valentine’s Day photo on my blog” but then realized 4 days ago was more like 4 weeks ago (in interweb years we had already moved on to St Patricks Day themed photograms.)
So I’m late. Like, for everything as usual since the kids graced me with their photogenic little beings.
And as I type this I watch the DVR’d Grammys, dancing along with the audience as Rhianna and Ziggy Marley and Sting and Bruno Mars take the stage. I witness something so magical and moving…that the rest of the world experienced over a week ago. I can’t even real-time tweet #Grammys because the Twitosphere has evidently moved on to #AlecBaldwin. Fair enough.
Yet the stirring Grammy performance has me tuning into my iTunes account, feverishly downloading last year’s music (which I never heard since the Amy Winehouse Pandora station I listen to doesn’t play much of The Lumineers.) I stumble upon a song called “Bird’s Lament” that my husband has referenced and I think – HOLY F-ING HECK this song IS SO AU COURANT and also awesome.
After a bit of research we realize it was written in 2004 by a guy named Moondog who was born in 1916 (and chose to live as a homeless Jazz musician on the streets of NYC). 2004 = BK (before kids) so I give up on staying current or using my kids as my excuse why I am not, sip my Shasta, and publish my belated post. #moondog #motherslament #aretweepsstillhashtaggingyall
Okay I confess…that’s not an Easter tradition and this will likely be the only year I get “Easter ink” done.
Talking through it - distraction technique
But since you’re here and you’re reading, look what I did!
Double checking placement pre-ink
I can not have any more children because there are no wrists left to commemorate them on. I’m okay with that. I’m more than okay with that.
Being told what to do if I need to pass out
As it turns out, I have met my threshold of carving-designs-into-my-skin-for-self-expression pain.
Pretending to be really tough
Not as tough as I picture myself to be.
Bracing myself - it's ouchy
Now I have a tattoo on each wrist.
Left wrist - Hunter
As I like to say, the placement is symbolic of the shackles of motherhood imprisonment.
Right wrist - Kingston
But in a good way.
i did the math. it’s been 11 years since i published my first blog.
it was a simple blog and its content rivaled that of a locker room “spill it” sesh between deviously naive preteens.
from there i went on to begin new blogs with each short-lived relationship – and there were many.
then a blog when my niece was born.
then a blog i met my husband and we moved to ny.
and yet another when i started a mommy group in wny, here. it’s still up – but no longer “running” in the sense that it’s been long since forgotten by the surrogate bloggesse who adopted it.
and while thinking of, remembering, rereading these old blogs makes me cringe at the design and the content and the photos and and and…they did pave the way for this blog. the blog that i now consider a true attempt at a weblog that is not just for personal consumption. this is no longer a personal journal to share amongst family and friends. this is a blog for the interwebs. a blog for the people. by the person. and that person is me.
oh it’s late. i’m getting wacky. but you’ll find you probably like me better, with all of my quirks showing.