When I don’t blog…

I can’t call myself a writer. I can write. I like to, generally.  But a real writer writes when they’re happy ‘cause they just must. They also write when things are rough, just because that’s what they do…it has to come out and they have to process this way. Not me. I quit writing.

All through my journals there are quiet periods from time to time. I can probably tell you why there is a missing period of time in my journal, but I will most likely say, “I don’t remember much of it, just that it was dark, but I forget details.” I still do this. I found my journal this morning when I was looking for something else. I don’t know when I wrote last.

Now I see it happening on my blog as well. Sometimes a hole in the journal means nothing more than that I’ve been writing on the blog instead. But holes in both mean more than that.

One thing that has changed though is that I can talk when the going is rough. I will tell certain people. Melinda used to accuse me of not talking. She was right. I’d tell her later that I’d been really struggling two months ago. Then the pieces would fall into place as to why I responded in one way or another back then. I talk now. Not to everything to everyone, but a little to several and more to a few. I’m sure, too much to others as well.

So, why haven’t I been blogging? I’m seven month pregnant and the temperatures are well above 100 degrees everyday around here for the last several weeks. We’re in drought and at our house, we run out of water for periods during the day. Somewhere along the line I’ve picked up a sort of cold that has my sinuses full and makes me dizzy. I’m still trying to get the iron back up where it is supposed to be. 

Most of you women probably understand the ramifications of this. The nagging knowledge of what isn’t getting done while you drag yourself through  your house, accomplishing only the bare necessities. The dirty bathrooms and floors, the kitchen with all of it’s uncleaned crannies, the syrup that’s been spilled at the bottom of the refrigerator and pooled under the veggie drawer—and it’s been there for two weeks—all of these things do not qualify as bare necessities.

I try to get laundry done around the sporadic water schedule. Dru bought me a big blue jug to sit by the kitchen sink and store water. Now I can do dishes in the morning, before it gets too hot to be in the kitchen. I sweep the floors now and then. And I do make meals—but not all of them. Sometimes I say, “I am not cooking tonight.” And poor Dru either cooks, takes us out, or goes to buy rice and bring it back to us.

Then there is the guilt that I should be feeling for what I am not getting done, but really I’m not feeling guilty much. Why waste perfectly good emotions on that which guilt can not change? I tend more towards despair and even resentment. Actually, even when I’m not pregnant, I can tend towards anger when it’s so hot outside.

So why be blogging? You just saw my whine list? It was neither very uplifting or encouraging to anyone. I didn’t mention the other hard stuff we are facing right now and I’m desperately hoping Dru can find peace in his heart for, once and for all. And here is the fatly pregnant, tired lady-- who doesn’t even do a good job of praying through all of that. Now  enters the guilt. I fell asleep last night when I had decided to spend some time praying before sleeping.

So, to those of you who pray for us, now would be a good time to pray.

And I will try not to blog again until I can think of happier things. There are still happy things in our lives. Like Rennie is a lot of fun right now. He’s decided that he’s not a baby but a little boy. We’re enjoying all of our kiddos these days. Maybe in the end, it’s the kids that we press on for. In their own little ways, they provide a goal and a glue through it all. I know that they’re what make me get out of bed every morning anyway.