i guess sometimes i struggle to write things that i KNOW i’ve read before. i worry about being a mommy blogger. (pretty sure i was a mommy blogger before i was a mom.) i worry i’ll sound basic or pretentious or exploitive or any of the other negative words that might cross my mind. i worry i’ll write about my boy, and it will hurt someone waiting for a baby. i worry i’ll offend someone because laaaaaaaands i say the wrong thing like it’s my job. i worry that i’ll say something WAY too heavy because that’s what comes natural for me. (hey-o 4w5!) i just worry. and i don’t write. and i feel itchy because words are the closest thing i have to singing on a stage at the top of my lungs. (and i have a very deep need to sing on a stage at the top of my lungs.) (you really don’t understand.)
(it’s the one thing i sometimes think God got wrong in the world, me not having a good singing voice.)
(i can even see why mosquitoes are necessary sometimes, but why wouldn’t He let me sing like Liza and Ethel or Judy or Adelle Dazeem?)
and then sometimes my child goes to sleep at 8pm and wakes up so happily at 12:30am. and we get out of bed and walk around and eat cheese and do dishes and play dinosaurs and bugs and read books and eventually i raise my voice because SWEETHEART ITS 3AM PLEASE STOP TICKLING MY ARM ON ACCIDENT OKAY I LOVE YOU IM SORRY I YELLED A LITTLE JUST NOW MAMAS JUST SUPER TICKLISH NIGHT NIGHT DONT TOUCH ME ANYMORE.
and then somewhere around 1:30am, the words start dancing around in my brain like unformed poetry.
i hope that he knows when i’m standing over our kitchen sink, it feels like i’m standing before the throne of God above. that the mountain of dirty dishes with scraped on food and liquids turned a liiiiiiittle solid represent the times we gathered together in silliness and holiness and deep hunger. i hope when he sees that abandoned laundry basket, i was probably saying yes to my nature boy. and i hope he knows every time i chose laundry over playing outside, it was the joy of my life to fold tiny pants. i hope i convey that the kingdom of God sometimes begins over our stove, simmering and melting and popping and sizzling and promising something greater. i hope he knows that when i crawl out of bed with him after midnight, barefoot, i’m somehow hoping he’ll be comfortable enough to wake me up if he’s 15 and needing it. i hope we are his very first example of trying and failing and being redeemed, fully, as we are. i really hope he sees all of our flaws and our humanity and our dirty dishes and clutter and comprehends that we are all still perfectly fine. i hope our first home begins his love of both deep solitude and rich community. i hope we are conveying there is magic in the mundane.
you might’ve read all those words once before, and i know you’ll read them again. but they were inside and now they’re out where i needed them to be. that’s all of it. i’m a mama and a wife and a sister and a daughter and a friend and a very occasional writer and a regret-filled singer and a part-time wedding reception dancer and i worry and i hope and i finally did my dishes last night.