Doing All Right

The grammar nerd in me felt compelled to write “all right” as two words even though I feel like “alright” looks more like what I’m feeling. That makes total sense, doesn’t it?

For those of you who were on pins and needles, things are improving in daycare land. Louie has had a consistent teacher for several weeks and he seems more comfortable and settled. He’s still a little dramotional, but not nearly so upset when we arrive and less puffy-faced when I pick him up.

August is cool as a cucumber. The other day I went to pick him up and he was sitting, close to some others, “reading” a book. He wasn’t sure he wanted to leave! You know, until I pretended I was leaving without him. He sat through a forty-five minute speech lesson without batting and eye.

I catch them bent over things together, shoving each other, and checking one another to see their reaction. They are both much more aware socially then they were even a few weeks ago.

Two boys looking at the same thing.

Overall, their rate of “talking” has gone up quite a bit. It’s mostly unintelligible, but I’ll take what I can get.  I’m seeing a huge increase in understanding from both and August definitely seems more responsive to his name and to basic questions. He’s starting to talk, and might have been talking for a while before this because his “talking” is very airy and a lot of times the words don’t have endings. “Pi” for pig. “Nuh” for no. Louie’s issues are similar–he opens his mouth to make the sounds, but his mouth isn’t very cooperative. “Dah” means almost anything.

It’s a start.

And I’m happy, and I think they are too.

I’ll take it.

A Birthday Ramble

Anybody remember when blogs weren’t full of polished entries, but were more of a dumping group for whatever you were thinking at the moment? Well, welcome to 2005 because tonight I’m just rambling a bit.

It’s my birthday and I am now thirty-four years old. Thirty-four! For some reason the even numbers always feel a lot older than the odds.

So I’m feeling a little old, and I’m also pretty sure I’m done having babies, and suddenly I find myself thinking about what my next big project will be. Since the summer I’ve been feeling some rather intense pressure to “pick a lane.” I feel like I know how to do some things, and I’ve got some knowledge and skill, but I have no freaking idea what I should be doing.

I definitely think I should be writing about something. Took me six months to narrow that down. I have a few topics in mind, but I keep bouncing here and there, back and forth, and OH MY WORD JUST PICK A LANE!

Like I said, I think I’m narrowing it down, but it’s hard. In the whining about things that ridiculously not worth whining about department, it’s hard to pick a lane when no one really cares what you do. Doesn’t that sound melodramatic? I guess what I mean is I’m a mom. I’m a mom first and if I find something to do in my spare time, then great, but I could knit, or scrapbook, or whatever. Nobody’s waiting for me to start bringing home a paycheck. This should be a dream, but it leaves me with options–sooooo many options. A lot of options is dangerous. I know–woe is me.

So while I ruminate on what the heck I’m doing with my life–is this a mid-life crisis?–I’ll ask the people who read this blog about theirs. Have you picked a lane? What is it? If you could do anything you want starting tomorrow, what would you do?

This post brought to you by the number thirty-four.

woman smiling with pelican necklace

Maybe now that I’m old I’ll remember to wear makeup and stop taking pictures of myself with my cell phone. . . doesn’t seem likely, though.

 

Self Discovery A-Go-Go

The other night I tweeted about this briefly, but in the last few weeks I’ve had one of those uncomfortable personal revelations. I’ve never figured out exactly why it’s so easy to see things in other people’s lives while being completely oblivious to your own. If you figure that one out, let me know.

Well here’s what I’ve realized: I am not an entrepreneur.

If you know me in real life this is ridiculous. Of course I’m not an entrepreneur. OF COURSE. I don’t like business. I don’t like money. I mean, I like having money, but I don’t enjoy extracting it from others. I derive very little pleasure from earning money. I know I NEED it to live and eat and whatnot, but I was totally the girl who found three uncashed checks in her drawer when I finished my last job. I’m not motivated by money. I often work for free and love to volunteer my time.

But I love entrepreneurs. Adore them. I love people with ideas and passion. I love people who are making their dreams come true. I love people who work hard. I love innovators.

Sadly, however, I don’t think I’m one of them.

I actually think I might be–gasp–a creative.

I know.

I am so resistant to this idea. I think of creatives as the type of people who can’t be depended upon. They are flaky and always late and have no common sense. I like to believe I’ve got common sense. It’s OK for other people to be creative, but me? No, sir. I’m way to level-headed for that.

There’s also that whole thing where being creative means putting yourself out there. You can hide a little with paint, but writing? I have always felt rather firmly that I am NOT a writer. Writers are smarter than I am. Writers are better at grammar and writers probably don’t read detective novels. I’m pretty sure they sit around reading Proust in their spare time. I’m also sure that writers did not get B’s in English like I did.

But here I am (starting a sentence with a conjunction) typing away on this keyboard day after day.

I’m not an entrepreneur, but maybe I’m a writer.
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