It’s my first entry in my first blog. I sit down and type furiously, willing the words onto the page. Just as furiously, I click the backspace key to erase, start again, and repeat the process. I wonder, does everyone who blogs start out this way? I have so much I want to say, so much that goes unsaid every day. I’m trying to remember the last time I sat down and really wrote anything and I think it must have been nearly thirteen years ago, when I was pregnant for the first time, had nothing but time and dreams, and thought it would be sweet to record the pregnancy in letters to my unknown child. That’s when everything changed.
I remember being pregnant like it was yesterday. Pregnant women get so much attention. Strangers approached me in the grocery. Some wondered if I knew the gender of my bulging blessing (I didn’t). Others shared advice, old wives tales, and (eek) their own birth stories. The strangest ones couldn’t seem to keep their hands off my stomach. It drove me crazy!
I should have learned then to cherish those moments of attention from friends, family, and strangers alike because it wasn’t until much later that I realized that was the last time I would ever be recognized as a person. Let’s face it, if you go out in public with an adorable infant, no one has any idea what you are wearing, when you last combed your hair, or even if you are speaking English. That’s a good thing, since, if you are out in public with an infant, you are probably wearing poop or spit-up, don’t remember the last time you combed your hair, and don’t know yourself if you are speaking English.
To make matters worse, I am not only a mom. I am also a teacher. Have you seen the episode of Family Guy where the little kid stands next to his mom’s bed and the conversation goes something like this:
Stewie: Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mom! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Mommy! Momma! Momma! Momma! Momma! Momma! Ma! Ma! Ma! Ma! Ma! Ma! Mom! Mom! Mom!”
That’s my life. All day. Every day. Three kids at home. About a hundred and fifty at work. All day. They may vary it. The students don’t call me mom – very often. I’m lucky, they call me by name. Sometimes I’m not so lucky.
So, if you’re still reading, I suppose you are probably wondering why you’re still reading. Is there a point here? For me, the point is that I have something to say. I’m not sure what yet, but I know that if I have the chance to work through it I’ll figure it out. There’s still a person in here with thoughts and ideas and emotions. I just have to get them out. I guess that’s really the point. I want to get past this fear of writing again and find my own identity. I want to share my thoughts with someone. I want to send a letter from the inside, from my heart, to you.