Look. I know, I know. Blog etiquette, blog shmetiquette. I don't have an obligation to visit people who keep blogs. I don't have an obligation to leave a comment if I *do* read.
But. I am guilt-ridden when I haven't had the opportunity to visit people who take time out of their busy schedules, time spent avoiding the pants-leg-tug by a toddler (or a gaggle of 'em) in order to read my thoughts, my words, my selfish internet vacuum; I feel, in my stomach, in my gut of guts, that I owe. I am indebted to those who warm my blog with their company, their words of humor, of kindness, of response to my vacuum, making it far less vacuous.
Right now? I'm in the red. My checkbook is so unbalanced it's like a knife in my brain, twisting slowly.
You know what else feels knife-like? My arm, beginning at the pinky, and running all the way up to my hairline. My entire right side is lit like an electrical wire, with a red-hot center coursing through its length. I have been working almost non-stop on designs for the shop we're about to launch, and stealing away from that to watch my son and do laundry and slop some food together and clean up the food detritus in between times.
It makes a girl want to grab hold of Mama Tulip's hand and jump, jump off this busy, hectic bridge of words and URLs and cute pictures and witty dialogue and comments and concern and affection and whirly whirl whirl.
But I won't. I'll resist the urge, like the bright Sunshine Scribe, and instead stay focused on the little red dot in the middle of the screen (that I won't allow to freeze me up, like Cindy Brady, when she and Bobby were contestants on the trivia game show and Cindy couldn't respond to anything once she saw the little light on the top of the camera switch on; she simply froze, dumbstruck). I'll post when I can, and I'll visit and read blogs when I can, and I'll comment if I have time, and I'll try to fight off the guilt when I can't. I have to prioritize, and I know I don't need to provide apologies for doing so; we all have busy, multi-task-required existences, and sometimes more opportunities for blogging are afforded than others, etc. But my feelings are still there, the ones that urge in a stage whisper to read! and comment! and I! want! to!
And I will. When I can. I am going to be available far less than I was these last several months, because of a confluence of events - my son is running, and climbing, and opening doors and drawers and Pandora's box is always just out of his reach, I'm afraid, and that requires my almost-constant supervision; the webshop, once I've finished working with my husband to establish it, will require my attention to fulfill orders and sundry; and my house will continue to beg me to take a towel to it once in a while (and I'll continue to blithely ignore it most of the time -- that's one guilty feeling I've managed to almost totally silence, a knowledge that fills me with a shiny, squeaky sense of relief).
I'm not gonna quit; I'm just gonna downsize. I know I don't owe this manifesto on my status as blogger, but I feel that I do. And I like to acknowledge my feelings. It's one of the things in life that inspires me, after all.
It's sure to get a little lonely around here, now that I've declared my intentions. I'm trying to tell myself it won't hurt. It will. But my feelings haven't changed about all of you. Only my schedule has interfered. Unlike my mom (and my dad, too, but it's never bothered me quite so much about him), I refuse to allow something like this to take precedence over my son in the scale of priorities. My mom has always chosen church, and church-related activities, over me and my brother. Just today, I asked her if she could help me with the baby kidlet a little more than usual this week, so that I could really throw myself into the last push to get the shop ready for opening up, and she explained that she had already scheduled a lot of events with her church this week, due to a missions conference they're putting on. Her participation includes helping set up chairs, and tables, and going shopping for food with several other women, and assisting in food preparation, etc. She's an extra body, in other words. I'm guessing, too, that if she were to explain that she couldn't help quite so much this week as she'd originally committed to doing, because her daughter needed some extra help with the grandchild, that her friends would not only release her from her commitments, but expect her to choose to help us over helping them. Because that's the usual routine, especially with church people. Family comes first -- family values, non?
At least, you'd think that. My mom, however, explained that she had committed to this, that she'd already enlisted her aid, and couldn't back out now. They are counting on her, after all. To unfold chairs. And slice bread. And exchange pleasant banter about whose cancer is worsening and who needs prayer for some burgeoning disaster.
I'm sure, too, that she'll reference her daughter's family at least a few times during all the chit-chat exchanged over the gigantic vat of boiling pasta, and industrial-sized cans of tomato paste, can openers a'cracking; something to the effect of our dark, doomward-advancing souls, because we've not chosen to declare open war on Satan. I'm sure she'll lament the future soul of her grandson, because of our non-declaration. How that must surely negatively effect him.
I wonder if she'll mention how she could've been right there with us, influencing our little family for good, by simply providing her presence, by playing with that doomed grandson, by acting out the love she says, in so many words, she feels for us so strongly. Or is it more important for her to play the role of the concerned, loving grandmother? Does that feed her soul at the end of each day when she tries to fall asleep, to no avail, because she does not sleep well or deeply?
Regardless, and of course I've gotten away from my original point (!), which is to bow low before you who have troubled yourself to peer into the musty recesses of my brain and care about it, and me, for even a brief moment. To be grateful to you for that slice of your time and attention. I am. Even if the only way I can show it is through this post, and subsequent posts where I deliver a similar thanks and apology.
I've gone on too long, and my son is begging for my attention and I have to give it. I want to have a good relationship with him as an adult. This, for me, is what will bring that about. Ignoring teh internet's stage whispers and hanging out with him.
I know you all understand.
(so why do I feel like crying?)
*********
I know why. I skimmed over the post quickly, after publishing, to ensure that there were no glaring spelling mistakes or grammatical eyesores, and it hit me: I'm sad because I'm basically ending about a zillion awesome friendships with the only people who really understand; understand me, my situation, this exchange between my son and myself, between the triangle that is this family, my need for this outlet, the blog. My need for communication with like-minded individuals. I realize this isn't an end, but it's change, and I hate change. I'm afraid of change. Change is a constant, yes; but it doesn't mean I'm good at handling it, or that I've gotten accustomed to its abrupt arrival, no matter how often it gets here and smacks me with its shiny, new glove. I owe Misha's recent similar announcement some credit, too, for my comprehension of this alteration, of my newly realized inability to fulfill my end of the bargain I initially made, the contract I signed, with the provision that I would complete the requirements included therein. That I would maintain the relationships I began, and not slack, and it's a big, fat lie if anyone tries to tell me that's not part of the contractual agreement made in the communication between bloggers. I only get as good as I give, and frankly, that's friendship in a nutshell, so for anyone who tries to hand me the pablum suggestion that I can relax, because people will still like me and be my friend, even if I can't play along, just hold on to that little jewel. I'll keep believing what I already do, which is that we're friends, and I have to back off in the friendship, and I'm sad about it. It hurts, cuts to the quick, in that sharp, immediate sense, but it's also gonna hurt as I go along, too. I've relied on the friendships I've made through this process so heavily in the last months, and I feel as though I'm cutting the hand off to suit the arm. I need that hand! Arm, why are you so demanding? But I made a choice to become a mother, and the logical step for me right now is to give him my best, despite my desire to keep a lot of it for myself and my adult friendships. I have to cut off that hand, or at least remove it temporarily, and maybe I can reattach it occasionally for kicks, just like the old song about the penis (just like it! except it's about a hand and blogging, and not a penis! so not really like it at all! except for the attachable aspect!). And I'll be itching to talk to you guys when I can't, and I'll post and realize that I deserve to have none of you read and discover what's been happening in my little corner, because I haven't caught up with you, or have, but haven't been able to take the time to say some witty, friendly thing in response to your stories. And I do believe that the cat's tail is being effectively swallowed at this point in the scenario.
I miss you all so much already.
