So I’ve discovered something about myself recently. I’m 39 years old and I’ve never actually grown up. I’m not sure I ever will. When I’m around my dad I’m just his little girl, no matter what. I asked him when his mother died whether he felt like he’d ever grown up and he said, “no, not really.” So I’m guessing it’s normal. What is grown up anyway? I’m sure if I were sixty instead of forty and an eighty year old were talking to me, I’m sure she’d still think of me as a child. I’m also pretty sure that when I’m seventy and my kids are pushing fifty that I’ll still think of them as my babies.

Back to the point, I’ve learned something about myself lately. (Maybe this is a mid-life crisis or something, this introspection.) I’ve learned that I love to write. I used to hate writing. I never thought I was any good at it and that writing just wasn’t my thing. Teaching the kids, we’ve always been strong in math and science but it was pretty much a hit or miss on the writing. So why do I love writing now? What is actually going on here? I’ve always hated it. If I hated it then why did I start this blog? It’s all in answer to not going completely nuts.

I’m home or running around 24/7 with four kids and a husband (he works from home). How can I possibly have a chance to say what I want or have any meaningful conversation when I don’t have a moment’s privacy? When I’m out I’m careful not to step on other people’s toes. When I’m home I barely have time to think. I love to think. I love to learn. I’ve read book after book after book. This year I’ve read from the classics, from autobiographies, and fiction. I’ve read political literature and about science. I’ve read Atlas Shrugged, The Fountainhead, The Constitution, The Federalist Papers, Ann Coulter, Michael Savage, Glenn Beck, and countless others. I’m in the middle of reading the Bible, Gone with the Wind, an Ann Coulter book, and two Michael Savage books right now. What am I doing with it all? What do I do with all of my thoughts? I write. I can’t exactly discuss all of what I read with many people. Most people I know don’t read what I read. Most people don’t have more than one book next to the nightstand that they read from each night.

I’m hungry. My mind is starving for something. I feed it as much as I possibly can. The very last thing I want is to lose my mind. I don’t mind losing my hearing (it’s almost always too loud anyway.) I don’t even mind if I could never speak again. But don’t take away my sight. That would be like taking away my heart beat. Now that I’ve begun writing, I feel that I have an output. I write a lot more than I actually post here. I’m writing for my sanity, I’m writing so that I don’t forget and so that I remember who I am. So often I feel lost in the realm of motherhood. Children are a tremendous blessing but require a lot of work. Parenthood is not for the faint hearted. I know this season will pass and that I’ll miss having my babies being babies and so I write.

thanks for reading my ramblings tonight,

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