When it was almost gone I felt a moment of relief. All those words and moments and documented mistakes were gone. All the over sharing and stories that aren’t quite mine to give so fully… gone. I felt a second of “oh good. Now no one will know. ” I was thankful to have the words gone from my girls. And thankful to not have to wonder “have they read about me?” when I meet a new Mom in Bellingham.
In the next flicker I felt intense heartache. It’s all gone. All the mistakes, and moments, and over sharing of motherhood and wife life and our story and his story, and her sleeplessness, my body hate, and my anger, my sadness, my everything from the start was gone. Poof, into the internet universe never to be seen again. And with that felt a strange weight. I’ve already forgotten those days (I was recently at the store and a new mom asked me if sleep was hard with my oldest, and it took me too long to remember. Because now I miss it. I remember rocking her fondly. Not putting her down, to hard, in anger at 3am. The realities have slipped away). I quick look through the archives reveals a women I am both pushed and pulled to cry with and comfort for her choices that she will regret (that I’ve already forgotten) and also pulled to never remember because she feels wholly unrecognizable.
The words I used to describe Nolie in her sleeplessness break my heart. My desire to not cry it out but to push it to the edge and “break her of this habit” make my stomach turn.
How freely I shared Charlie’s story makes me so torn. It introduced me to so many beautiful and suffering women. So many women who needed to know they weren’t alone. And who needed, desperately, to see a story of hope. But it also feels heavy and strange to know that so much of our very personal hearts and life are there. On a page. Easily searched. (But know, it was all shared with Charlie as the editor. And who stills believes wholly in that story being available).
The words that go along with my birth stories are so strange and hard and beautiful, but oddly stoic. Because I didn’t quite know myself. I didn’t quite know how much to give, how to give in, or how to convey it. And now my desire to rewrite them, years later, with just what’s left. Just the intense and the beautiful.
The moment dragged on. And my need to make a decision (to pay to have this page hosted) loomed. And I’m here.
Bubbling over with words, after feeling mute for so long, so much to share, so much changing going on and beautiful and happy and light. So much heavy and new and universal.
I’m struggling with the boundaries. I know that I won’t be putting as much of my children out here. And I know that I will be choosing wisely how quickly I share my own tender heart. But I also feel the words pressing out my fingers again and I’m ready to make it a practice again. To find a new voice. And to see what story it is that I am needing to share.
So, it’s here. And will be here. And won’t (as some posts will be disappearing, but no recipes). But that woman, the one I’m desperate to erase, she’s still there too. And she deserves hold a piece of my past, as much as it pains my heart to read those words and feel utterly divorced from the woman, and mother, I was.
All I can do, as I read back and decide to write on, is to do it with grace for who I am, who I was, and who I will be. And trust that those who love me have the same.
So, hi. And we’re back. And it’s new.