Prior to being a momma of one, a wife of another, I held many titles—some more pleasant than others.
Writing Instructor. English Major (PB+J Monster). Sister-friend. Grocery Checker. Copy Editor (Deadline Enthusiast). Miss/Mrs. TA (Prof’s Toy). Freelance Writer. Silly Woman. English Master (Debt Earner). Aunt. Retail Wench. Dumb Blonde. Administrative Assistant. Thespian. Waitress. Daughter. MIT. Lab Attendant. Curriculum Writer. Writing Tutor (Baby-sitter). Literacy Specialist.
One thing that’s remained constant is my need to document said roles in the most accurate fashion possible. From sketching out my lifestyle in drawing pads to livejournal pages to bar napkins to Iphone notes, I somehow found my true occasion: to document my fiascos, my foes, my too-highs, my too-lows in this dainty little shoe-box of a blog.
Harnessing one’s creative outlet is the pinnacle of charmed life. I know this to be certain as I lost my need to create amidst the chaos that comes with nursing a newborn, finishing a Master’s creative thesis, and getting married all within the span of one year. Prior to this stint, I wrote, wrote, wrote like a fiend, like I may starve without the influence of my hands on paper. After the birth of my babe, my hands + head + heart were too busy. I questioned if my writing was a selfish act, as I’d often locked myself in some space, in the company of my thoughts and subsequent characters I created. I didn’t know if I’d ever find the joy of writing again, if I’d ever find readers to share in my “campfire stories” as one horribly bad date had called them (more on that later).
Because my mind only seemed to quiet when I’d nurse my babe, I’d settle into his weight. My arms had never held anything of such significance. The weight of his content form grounded me as my words once had. I recall combing blogs during those early nursing moments, and still find myself following ones that brave life/times of DIYers–a lovely notion in and of itself that you’ll find in rabid repetition, here.
When my little one finally morphed into his terrible tot ways, I felt the need to comb less on other blogs and back-comb my own. And this was the best decision. Creating something out of nothing and everything, out of pen and paper and joys and strife all at once is as divine as the Heavenly Sweets candy booth at our local festival. I knew that I needed a sweet space to create, to connect. Mind you, it’s best not to be so serious—plenty of time for that outside the shoebox, yes? Until then!
*I am one-half creative, one-half perfectionist, and thus have poured every bit of myself into this space. All words, images, and illustrations from this site may not be used without permission.