1. Write zero blogposts about something horrible a stranger said or did.
Last year was full of people I’d never even met saying I should’ve aborted Adelaide. Strangers telling me “miscarriage stuff” is too uncomfortable for blogs. Messages saying molestation and abuse are private issues that shouldn’t be discussed online. Someone at Walmart pulling her child away from Adelaide, while hissing, “We don’t talk to people like that.” The woman at an amusement park who whispered, all too loudly, to her husband, “I could never do what she does. All that work with no pay-off. What a waste. And why so many kids?”
I used to become infuriated or dejected from these things. I thought writing about it would help me process. Assist me in being a voice for the voiceless. Or at least give me a chance to stand up for myself, because I was never brave enough to do it in the moment.
Recently, I realized penning my thoughts and feelings about it was stealing my time. And energy. Both are running fairly low right now, so it seems unwise to continue down that path.
So you won’t see any posts that start with “Some person I have absolutely no relationship with was a complete jackass today. Here’s what happened…”
2. Write zero blogposts about my shrinking community.
WordPress and Facebook like to notify me when things are at an all-time low. I already shared my thoughts about it, but I wanted to make it official.
You won’t see any posts where I lament that I have fewer reads than any other time in my 4+ years of blogging. That my engagement shrinks everyday. Because I’ve moved past it.
I’m glad you’re here. And I wish we could just meet for coffee and over-priced cookies and chat over one another non-stop. I actually like our tiny group. Maybe I will do a real life meet-up someday, where we can get together and be odd.
3. Write zero blogposts about poop.
Just kidding. I’m a Special Needs Mom. My life revolves around poop.
When I was a little girl, I never imagined that I would be out to dinner with my husband for one of our two dates in 2016, and he would ask, “Did Adelaide have a good poop today?” And I would answer, “Yes! But I hope she poops again for my mom.” And Dave would tease, “Sorry, Della, but you offered to babysit. Enjoy the diaper!” And we would both laugh. In a restaurant.