Ever since I can remember I’ve been writing. Stories, poems, plays, articles, letters: You name it, I’ve written it. I’ve been told that I’m not half bad, so I try to own that every once in awhile. I’m also full of self-doubt, this irrational fear that someone will tell me “hey, you suck” and my dreams of “being a writer” will be squashed. I’ve let my fear of failure paralyze me into not writing. I’ve let life get in the way of my passion.
I kept thinking that I would wait for the right moment, inspiration to hit, the perfect story idea. I kept my journal, continued to lament on how one day, somehow, I would find my story and it would be perfect. There was never enough time in the day, you see. What I finally realized was that there is no such thing as the perfect situation, the right spark or moment to “start” writing. I am a writer, and writing should be something I am unable to go without doing. I temporarily lost that. I don’t know if anyone will ever read this. I don’t know if anyone will ever care. But it makes sense to do this. You might not like what I write, what I say, or how I say it. Hell, you may think my writing sucks, and that’s okay because I’ll write anyway. I’m stubborn like that. Plus: how can I ever write a novel if I don’t pick up the proverbial pen?
I started this blog to document my pregnancy and all the craziness of being a first-time mom. I got pregnant again only a year later, blogged about chasing a toddler while lumbering around pregnant. Gave birth to my second daughter and am now crazily going about the day-to-day of raising two little ones. Stay tuned, because this place will only become crazier.
I’m loathe to refer to myself as a “mommy blogger”, because I’m just so much more than that. This is a blog about life. My life. My situation. My family. Past, present, future. Musings, opinions, rants– hell, I’m even throwing recipes in for good measure. I can’t promise what this will or won’t be, it just is.
I’m trying to find a balance: to be the best parent and partner I can be, while maintaining my own sense of self. I’m a work in progress, and it’s a beautiful thing.