Mommyblogging, or whatever it is I do now, is hard. When I was writing about infertility, it seemed more like a story, with at least some semblance of a beginning, a middle, and an end. I didn't start writing until the middle, but I backed up to tell the beginning, and clearly I ended up with a happy ending. But writing about mothering, or within mothering, somehow seems harder. Maybe in the beginning of a story you don't yet recognize it as a story and so you can't really think about it as such until at least the middle, if not the end? Or maybe day to day life is a series of small stories, not a big one. Or maybe I'm so caught up in the tremendous importance of the story, and in feeling like I have the power to control it (as delusional as that may be) that I can't even start. Whatever it is, I've been blogging a lot less than I'd like. I feel like either I need to give it up or I need to give it more. So I'm going to try more.
I've also been teetering on the edge of a rather unpleasant fog of depression, which probably has something to do with my inability to focus, or to put words to paper (er, fingers to keyboard?). And at the moment, we're all sick, which doesn't help matters. But there's more to it than just that, I think. I'm just not sure what.
Sweet moments of baby sickness:
Sadly, neither kid really knows how to blow their noses. (When do they learn that, anyway? It's tremendously useful.) But, after watching me snuffle and snort into tissues, B can now pretend to blow his nose - he'll hold the tissue to his nose, then make a snuffly nose-blowing sound with his mouth. Weird, but bizarrely cute.