Hello World!

I get the itch to start a blog about every four years or so, and then I come up with a million reasons not to, so I don’t have to confront my laziness and just how entirely pointless it all feels speaking into the abyss.

Eight months ago, at the tender age of 39, I gave birth two weeks early to a nine-pound boy, the spitting image of his 6’3 father. He’s still breaking my back and most of the time I can’t hear myself think because he’s always yelling at me. I had a day this week that was so off the rails with him, I thought my mind would fracture if I didn’t find some kind of outlet to process my thoughts and force myself to find some semblance of a self outside this child. I want to be a person who combs her hair and doesn’t perpetually live in puke-covered sweatpants and her husband’s old shirts, a person who doesn’t have to throw her favorite plain white T-shirt in the garbage because her son’s poop squished out of his diaper onto her hip. I want to be a person who can speak to her friends on the phone without someone screaming over their conversation. Okay, that last one is reaching but the bottom line is: I want some dignity. And as much as I don’t want to be a mommy blogger, I don’t know how the hell I’m going to write about anything else when he completely dominates my life—but I’m going to try so we’ll just pretend he’s not here even though he’s stolen my selfie mirror and will be in 90 percent of my photos for the foreseeable future. We will, of course, be shopping for my new wardrobe because my closet is a 2022 time capsule, try to bring some color into my sad beige home, and explore whatever else is rotting in my head. I will share what I’m listening to because I left my heart in 2005 on my MySpace page and include links to clothes and other products because maybe one day someone will pay me for it.

Wish me luck.