Good ol' President's Day. Gave me time to breathe. To think. To run around and laugh out loud with my boy. To grin and smile and argue and watch the snow fall and throw logs on the fire and contemplate friendships and finally, to bake.
Anyway. I'm feeling real good about my decision to leave the ol' digs. As I wrote my final post this evening, my heart fluttered just a bit. It's never done that the five million other times I've skipped town and started up my homebase elsewhere. I think it's because this time I know it's a for sure thing.
I'm actually okay with starting again (I'm not just trying to convince myself... really!). I think I was getting caught up in all the wrong things and needed to reevaluate why in the heck I choose to keep this writing and hitting the publish post button and writing some more thing up.
Is it pathetic that I feel like the only people out there who truly get me (besides, of course, my Tesoro) are a great big handful of you?
I appease myself with thoughts like this: like all women, like all mothers, things change drastically when wee children come into your life. And although I haven't experienced motherhood in one fashion, I am experiencing it in another. Although I think both are so the same, I think both are so different. And the truth is, I don't feel like you think I'm making up excuses when I say that our family is different from the rest down the street because our son is an Ethiopian American (well, still technically an Ethiopian). That there are different challenges, that there are different sorrows, that there are different guilts.
Just recently I read an incredible blog post where an incredible daughter made an incredible statement to her incredible mother. It went something like this: "Just because I'm black doesn't make me your slave!" I gasped out loud when I read that and immediately thought- shit. Shit, shit, shit. How does one get through that right there?
As I read through the comments, I noted that one of the first ones talked about how she could have just as easily said: "Just because I'm your kid doesn't make me your slave!" And that, well, that made me want to scream. Because the thing is, she didn't say that. She said the other bit instead.
Different challenges. Different sorrows. Different guilts.
It's not worse than yours. It's not better than yours. It's just different. Than yours.
I'm glad to be here. I'm glad to be baking and writing and reading and learning and crying and laughing.