I told myself I wouldn’t write blog posts while drinking. I am drinking a glass of chilled white wine.
I told myself I wouldn’t swear on this blog. Fuck that.
I told myself I wouldn’t package all of my stories into nice, sweet boxes with fancy ribbons on top, but I tried to this week. Twice. And do you know where those sweet, pretty stories are now? Unpublished, that’s where.
This blog is all about doing my thing, and I haven’t quite figured how to yet, but the one thing I do know is that I need to write. I need to write and hit publish before I am ready. Mistakes and all.
A quote came to me today via Goodreads that read, “Don’t take life too seriously. Punch it in the face when it needs a good hit. Laugh at it.” – Colleen Hoover
Well alrighty then.
Those two stories I drafted earlier this week?
One was about some nostalgic Christmas decorations I recovered from my youth that I am finding places for around my house as I try to incorporate them into my own children’s memories. Doing so without forcing them on them has put me into more than one tizzy. All these ornaments and decorations — many handmade by mother — are special to me, but mean nothing to my kids at this stage. I find myself confronting my childhood while simultaneously creating childhoods for my son and daughter.
It’s a pickle, really. Especially when I think about it too hard.
The other story?
That one was about my cantankerous daughter that I am unbelievably in love with. You see, she reached her arms out for me after a nap this week — on her terms, of course — and it felt so good. And when she reached for me I knew I could deliver a hug 100% accurately, when unlike everything else I try to do falls short of her approval. That hug, though? I was spot on.
Before I sat down to write tonight, I brushed my fingers over a cardboard Santa Claus window decoration that has been in my family for longer than it takes scotch tape to turn yellow and brittle. I am trying to decide on which window to hang him — overly faded side out, of course.
I recovered cardboard Santa from a crawl space over the summer in the house that I grew up in. Sentimentalism runs deep in my blood, and I wanted him for my children.
He’s jolly and looks exactly like Santa Claus should — velvety ret suit, rosy cheeks, button nose, bushy white beard and eyebrows, big belt buckle, and a sack full of toys. All the usual suspects are protruding from the large sack — a teddy bear, trumpet, drum, ball, horse, train, and doll. Santa is sticking out of a chimney that is partly covered with snow. Everything about this cardboard decoration signifies what the magic is all about.
Before I go to bed tonight, I am going to place him somewhere special for my kids. Happy, wonderful, beautiful December. I am finally getting into the spirit of the season.
And as I navigate my way through reliving my childhood memories and creating ones for my children, I am reminding myself that a little white wine and the occasional F word here or there never hurt anyone.
Onto the next day. A lovely tomorrow to you.