It's been a perfect night for blogging. At least, it should have been.
We wrapped up dinner before 7:00 pm, Michael was plenty tired from having boycotted his second nap, Abby was running low on energy from having woken at an obscene hour this morning, and Mia- having woken from her third nap by 5:15- was more than ready for bed by 7:30 pm.
Every child was tucked into bed by 8:00 pm. And though there were still dishes left to be done, I'd gotten a head start at lunchtime, so the mess was manageable. Though it was trash night, I finished dinner clean-up in time to chip in and help Tom. I even squeezed in a little bathroom cleaning after that.
As I scrubbed the sink top, I marveled at how useful I felt, for once, and looked forward to feeling like my slice of chocolate cake (made dairy-free, with love by Tom, for my late birthday celebration last night) and glass of wine were well-earned instead of self-indulgent.
That feeling never quite kicked in. I looked all around me at the living room and could see any number of things I should still be doing. I looked at the computer screen and saw a void where I'd hoped ideas would appear. The sad reality was that despite the comparably early hour, I had settled into my nightly routine with no more mental (or physical, for that matter) energy than usual, and just as bereft of opportunities for forethought as ever.
When the cake was consumed, the wine glass empty, and no muse had yet spoken, I did what I always do on nights like this one: I browsed through photos to find an unused picture to write around. However, I always feel like I'm cheating when I do this. I tell myself that one reason to keep up the blog is to keep my writing muscles flexed, but more and more I end up publishing posts that are essentially photo collections with captions and narration thrown in.
I know I'm probably being too hard on myself, here. It's a wonder I've managed to keep up with the blog at all, let alone offer prize-winning quality material. The perfectionist in me still wonders why, though. Why, after a year, I haven't gotten braver with my content, or at the very least, more organized in planning it. Why I still spend more than half the week relying on pictures to speak for me.
I will say this: my tendency to fall back on photos when no words will come has, at the very least, kept me pulling out the camera at every opportunity. And especially given that I can count on one hand the number of photos I've taken in the past four years that I've actually had developed, it's good to see my pictures put to use in some way.
Some day, when the kids are older and my mind is working again, perhaps the writing will come, too.
I bet you're wondering if I found some previously-unseen photos to use as a crutch before getting all weepy and self-reflective...
Yeah, I did, and while part of me is aching to save these pictures for another night when I'll face the same dilemma and want them handy, another part of me is determined to use them up now and force myself to think beyond later.
Also, I'm kind of worried that this post made no sense (in other words, that it kind of sucked), but since Abby can make everything better...
... especially when she does such a good job with her big-girl cup, well there you go.
Anyone got some spare confidence to lend me?