I begin with an idea of how I want to tell a story and then there's no room on the board and no matter how many times I swap tiles I end up with letters that only spell six points.
I used to write better. I used to write- period. Maybe I wasn't that good. Maybe that's not the point. I used to read what I had written and it was a close translation to my feelings. The posts I didn't write could fill a Top 100 / Best Of Engrish.com list for how poorly my emotions and thoughts were translated into the English language.
My blog. As if I own you. I don't. I have permission to post things until someone decides I don't any longer.
There are so many bite-sized stories that could fill only a paragraph. Then there is the list of things I'm cautious about putting online. I embarrassed my daughter last night and she called me a life-ruiner. I wanted to share something touching she did for someone and she buried herself in a blanket.
People (the proverbial "they") will tell you how fast time with a child goes by and to soak it all in as if you could put it in a bottle. I wish in some ways I could go back to when I had my tiny baby, but I'd only take more pictures and a ton of video. I don't want to go back. I like where we are now. Even if sometimes I don't want to be the grown-up.
I hate "what-ifs" as much as I hate bell peppers. Give me reality. Give me now. I'll get to the next part when it's time.
