Yesterday, I decided it was time to shut down my blog.
After much soul searching and comparing of myself to others, I realized a few things, upmost among them that I’m a terrible blogger for a variety of reasons. After looking at other, better blogs I realized I do none of the things that “grow” a blog — and for that matter I have not even checked my blogger stats in so long I have no idea whether I’m moving forward or moving backward and let’s admit here that if you aren’t moving forward you’re moving backward.
I don’t have giveaways. I don’t link to other brilliant posts I’ve enjoyed. I forget to comment on the kind words people leave here. I don’t boldface important points to make things easy to read.
In short, I’m failing as a blogger.
I got really caught up in the need to shut this party down, wasn’t it just time already?, and began the process of figuring out how exactly one goes about closing down a blog.
“Should I stop…” I began to google and in that nice way google does, it offered suggestions for my search.
“Should I stop beating my girlfriend…”
Um, no? That’s not my issue?
“Should I stop smoking weed…”
Yeah, not really a problem.
“Should I stop taking Propecia…”
I finally finished typing my sentence, but not before realizing that in the grand scheme of things, in the great adventure that is life, the naval-gazing of blogging falls really low in the List of Issues People Deal With.
So that was a nice little jolt of reality.
But then I did look up that information, read a few good articles, and sat back to think.
Should I stop blogging?
It’s silly really, to give it so much thought. I’m not trying to turn it into melodrama or self-analysis or even “hey everybody! please comment on how I should NOT stop blogging!”
But the articles I read really resonated with me and gave me a lot to think about. Lately, my blog has been turning into a chore, something I’ve started feeling like I was ignoring and that when I actually did pay it some mind, it was all about how I hadn’t been paying it any mind. Blogging had started to feel like another task, and one I’m tackling with very little finesse.
Then dinnertime rolled around and one of the boys was late. He was an hour late, and in the frenzy that is dinnertime, I was so focused on getting everyone else dealt with (and lovingly nurtured and cared for and loved) that I didn’t have time to track him down. I called one place, the place he was supposed to be, and he had left a while ago.
Which meant he was in another spot, the place he often winds up. And I needed to go grab him and (gently! but lovingly and firmly!) remind him of curfews and respect.
Meanwhile, Paul was running late because he needed to stop by the car dealership to get something worked out with the logistics of how to use the hands-free dialing system. A little earlier he had called me from his truck.
“I’m calling you on my truck!”
It was pretty cool, you say a name and the truck calls that person. You talk just in the air and the sound of your caller fills the cab of the truck. Very cool.
So I thought Paul would be pulling into the neighborhood at any moment, since it had been a good 20 minutes since he called, and I called him to fetch our boy.
“Paul, can you go grab [our boy] at [his friend's] on the way home?”
“Sure. What’s going on?”
“He’s late,” I said, my agitation levels at an all-time high. “Went there without asking. Same. Old. $#*!”
Except that last word I said with great emphasis and using the actual, non-symbols pronunciation.
Paul stifled a laugh.
“Okaaay,” he said…and before he could finish saying he was on the way I hung up. Real quick like.
Fast forward an hour, Paul and the boy home, dinner served and cleared and kitchen cleaned. A few other early-evening meltdowns come and gone, I took a deep breath and…and…and I realized that someone was in the truck with Paul when I called him.
Just like that, I knew that was the case.
“Was someone in the truck with you when I called?” I asked.
“Um, yeah…” said Paul. He was sitting in the truck with the salesman, the very nice gentleman who had sold him the truck, the nice gentleman who was there helping Paul learn to use the hands-free system on his truck when Paul’s irate wife was patched through to have herself an early-evening meltdown as she tried to deal with her Life with Boys.
And then it hit me. Or it hit me a few minutes after my face turned back from scarlet to pale. I need this blog because if nothing else, it’s going to keep me sane.
I write because it keeps me sane. It helps me laugh and it reminds me not to take myself so seriously.
I’m a terrible blogger. But I am a writer. And that’s what this space is for.
Want a jewelry giveaway? I will point you in the right direction. Want pretty pictures of yummy pumpkin cookies stacked in a row? I have a blogger friend who is amazing at that very thing.
Want to witness the ramblings of a woman with lots of boys as she writes her way through these crazy years called Family Life? You’ve come to the right place.
And there you go. I’m here because I write. Melodrama aside and a reminder that I write here to get the words out of my brain.
This morning I texted a good friend who has been blogging for a little longer than me.
“I almost quit my blog yesterday,” I admitted with sheepish flair.
“I have almost ‘quit my blog’ 1,000 times,” she responded, “but in the end I always chose to just ignore it instead. Much less dramatic.”
And there you go. Yesterday’s adventure, delivered to your front door.