It's been a while since I blogged. To be perfectly honest, I've been in a bit of a funk. Things have been stressful at home, my self-esteem isn't that great, and I really just haven't much to say (or I didn't think what I had to say was worth reading).
I'm still not sure if what I have to say is worth reading, particularly at times like this, when I don't have much to say at all, and yet, here I am, writing.
I could tell you about the worry over my husband's unemployment, the tension I feel when the kids are throwing tantrums, and the neon arrow of 'Terrible Mother' seems to have taken up a permanent position above my head. I could tell you about carpets uncleaned, and walls half-painted, of scribbles on bannisters, and meals rejected, of arguments, and stubbornness.
But I could also tell you about love, about people trying. I could tell you about choosing, every day, to do something, anything that make things a little brighter. I could tell you about kindness, even when you don't feel kind, about taking time to rest, and watch children at play. I could tell you about laughter seasoned with frustration, when the twins are joyously asking, for the umpteenth time, for 'More sing, mama!' I could tell you about being loved when you feel unlovable, and about loving when you feel as if you have no more love to give.
I could tell you about life, but it wouldn't be anything you don't know already.
