I finally got around to making something for myself the other day. All this sewing and I had not made a single thing for me. :) So here it is. My project journal.


A Startling Realization.

I cam to a startling realization today. It has been percolating under the surface for the past few weeks and today it came to the front of my mind and demanded to be named. I like Mondays.

I was not always this odd. As a high school and college student I, of course, had the obligatory distaste for Monday and the beginning of the school week. Then when I worked I felt about the same way. Often Sunday nights would result in stomach aches because I hated going into work just that much.

Perhaps this new found affinity for such a loathed day is a result of actually liking my "job". I find something increasingly soothing about moving from room to room of home my restoring order after the weekend. I enjoy sitting at my desk paying this weeks bills and shaping the schedule and meal plan for the week.

After a relaxing laid back Sunday there is something rejuvinating about the return to a scheduals and order on Monday. A return to regularly schedualed meal times and nap times. A return to cooking meals. I rarely cook on the weekends. However, I typically cook nice, large dinner on Monday nights. I used to do this on Friday nights. But Friday night is a reward in and of its self. Why not do something special on a less attractive day of the week. Infact thinking back, cooking a nice dinner on Mondays may have been where this whole enjoying Monday mood got started.


Why I do what I do.

SO I wrote this yesterday and didn't post it because it felt silly to post two blogs in one day, but I was afraid I would forget to today I will post two. Oh well. :)

I was having a conversation with my sister in law today. We were discussing the fact that every job has it's down sides. I don't know a single person who loves absolutely every aspect of their job. My husband is a great sales man and enjoys working with people. However, he takes very little enjoyment in doing inventory (who would?). Motherhood is no exception to this. So often women feel like they are betraying their husbands and children if they admit there is a part of being a wife and mother they could do with out. The questions remains then if we don't like what we are doing, why do we continue to do it.

For starts we continue on with our jobs, whether is be selling cars or changing diapers, simply becuase we are adults and that is the right thing to do. You don't stop providing or caring for your family simply becuase you don't get a long with your boss. Secondly we continue on because they is almost always an asspect of our job that we love. That's why we work there in the first place. This morning I was reminded why I gave up any life I had before with no hesitation, for the life I am living now.

As I sat writing e-mails, checking Face book and balancing the checkbook. Abigail my can't-stop-moving-lest-the-world-come-to-an-end 15-month old daughter crawled up into my lap. And staid there, perfect still for..... an hour! Apparently even bionic babies stop for teething. If I had almost any other job in the world I would have missed that moment. Have lost the opportunity to take my baby who is quickly slipping away into childhood and hold her in my arms and cuddle her. As I held her she absent-mindedly patted my growing belly reminding me that these moments will become even more rare as my belly expands making it harder to hold her. And then comes the moment when she stop being my little baby and because a big sister in this family Josh and I seem to be growing at the speed of light. These days of her and I are slipping by fast. But at least today, for an hour, we were able to wrap ourselves back up in a little cocoon and listen to each others hearts beat.


I wrote something yesterday that, when I look at objectively I can see how it would come across as negative. The interesting thing, is that negativity wasn't my goal at all. Neither was the lies that I know came across. For most people to speak or write a lie is to give it power. To give it legs. For me it is the opposite. As long as a thought it trapped in my head I will obsess, I will re work, and I will dwell on it. Those thoughts will run around my head until I am physically exhausted. However, when I write it traps those words on paper. Once that is done I can objectively sit back and look at them and see them for the half truths they are. I can examine them at my leisure. I can look at them from all angles. I can sift through them and pick out the beauty from the ashes. And there is beauty there. I recognize the potential lie in saying "I will never." However, in the moment this is how I felt. And I think there is a certain beauty in allowing ourselves (for a very brief moment) to feel whatever it is we are feeling. There is also beauty in recognizing our short comings, because it is only when we acknowledge them, that we can strive to over come them. I am neither the writer nor the woman I desire to be. But the desire to prove my yesterday self wrong, is motivation to get out of bed today. I am most likely doing a poor job at expressing myself clearly or accurately. But I am at least attempting. And for today, that is a giant step in the right direction.


I will Never.

I will never be the writer I want. It is a simple fact. I am too shallow. Too random. Not nearly motivated enough. Not nearly original enough. I read other peoples work and am inspired. Full of purpose I pick up a pen to compose something that can rival my muse. Only to realize I have come up with a poorly done fake imitation. I am at best an obnoxious obvious wannabe. a knock of off a great work.

I will never be the woman I want to be. I am too scattered brained. Too unfocused. Too needy. To self centered to ever truly be an inspiration or encouragement much less the kind of woman who change's the world simply by being herself. I have tried to please to many people and as a result have come achieved mediocrity in everything from making jewelry, writing letters, blogging, sewing, baking, quilting, and mothering. I know a little of everything and a lot of nothing.

I am a typical oxymoron clique of hating the band wagon and hating to be thought of as different. I guess I never really moved past 15. I am afraid that voicing what I want will clump me in with an over arching sacrin sweet stereotype. So I have settled for gray. Neither black nor white. Safe. Simple. In the middle.

The sad result is a fear of contentment. A sickening feeling that accompanies comfort and satisfaction. The mocking voice that taunts that what I am feeling is not truly satisfaction but in reality is defeat.