On Reading My Past Posts

Reading the posts from years ago before I stopped using this blog feels like reading someone else's words. 

 A close friend 

A sister (but not my sister) 

A confidant who knows all my stories, but tells them slightly wrong. 

Because the person that wrote those words was physically me, but she also wasn't me. 

 Her kids were tiny. 

She had never heard of COVID. 

She hadn't held a crying eight year old asking why her grandpa loved Trump but not her.

Now her kids are nearly grown. 

She survived Christmas of 2020 sleeping on the livingroom floor with the kids, terrified because Dr A's breathing was so very shallow as he fought COVID in the bedroom. 

Now that eight year old is a teenager that just rolls her eyes when her grandpa screams, to the point of slobbering, regurgitated MAGA nonsense. 

We are all tougher. 

We are all recast 

and reborn.

Rewritten daily.

Home

 There are no words for the joy that is having my own home. After years of scrimping, saving, and sacrificing it looked like we would never be able to have a home of our own until an incredible friend stepped in and helped us make that dream come true. 

Sometimes it still doesn't feel real. This house was a fixer upper in every aspect, but room by room, we've breathed new life into this 120 year old structure. I don't think we'll ever be done and I'm totally okay with that. This house is my ultimate art project.

Knocking Off The Dust

 For years I wrote online for everyone to see. 

I blogged here, then I started using Facebook like a journal.

 I documented my children growing up 

my wins 

my losses

I loved seeing "on this day" pop up and seeing how much far we've come as a family. 

Then my Facebook account was hacked. 

I lost it all. 

My personal page

My business page. 

14 years worth of memories, essays, and life. 

Gone.

I did my best to appeal to facebook's non-existent customer service for help, but found no recourse.

Facebook does not care about it's users. 

I was bereft.

So I started writing on paper again, but Emily Dickinson I am not. 

I take no comfort in the thought that my written words may never see the light of day. 

So I'm back.

All these years later, and this blog remains:

A half filled notebook ready to have the dust blown off.