I sat down the other day to write a blog. And despite the fact that I had acquired a rare moment of silence and alone time. I was comfortable in my new pajama pants; I had a huge mug of still hot coffee; I was focused. And then it occurred to me: I have nothing to write about. There is not a single funny story to write about.
That isn’t to say that funny things had not happened as of late. They certainly have. But they were moments, maybe instants, of funny. Nothing that could be crafted into a story that I could really write about. Additionally, I have three rules that I follow when writing this blog that are holding me back. Rules like the following:
1. Do not write excessively about the baby.
This is not a baby blog — BUT IT COULD BE. I think my daughter is hilarious. She cracks me up, but the reality is, unless you actually know me, you don’t know that she is potentially the most amazing baby ever. So I have to avoid the mom-speak and craziness.
I mean I could write at least six posts about poop—like how I laugh for at least 20 minutes when her father gets stuck with the poop of the day. Just this morning, I got a text that read, “WHAT CAME OUT OF OUR DAUGHTER THIS MORNING?!?” “DEATH… DEATH ITSELF! IT BLEW OUT HER DIAPER, HER JAMMIES . . . “
And while I feel bad, kinda, I really don’t because any other time, it’s me cleaning it up.
But let’s say I was going to write about her, I might tell you this story.
So the other night, the nugget was hanging out on the floor and rocking out with this fake piece of candy corn that has crinkle paper in it. At first I thought my mother-in-law sent her a cat toy, but then it came in this stuffed pumpkin that had all sorts of baby (maybe cat) toys in it. The label says “baby-genius” so I am assuming there is some sort of brain science behind it. All I know is that the spider rattle is my favorite thing ever because nugget attacks it and tries to eat it and I keep picturing her in my head as some giant vicious but insanely adorable iguana thing.
Back to my story, so she is going to town on this toy and one of the dogs is chilling on the floor next to us. I am talking to my husband and our friend when I hear Sasha (the dog) sort of sigh and put her head back down. It was stormy though, so I didn’t really think about it. About 5 minutes or so later, our friend looks at me and says, “Uhm…. Not sure if you know about this and it’s cool with you or whatever, but your daughter is snacking on your dog’s tail.”
I kind of roll my eyes, because what 65 lbs pit mix is going to let a 7 month old teeth on her tail?
Apparently, mine.
So I take Sasha’s tail away from the baby and realize that about 5 inches down to the tip are completely soaked with baby drool. Dripping, even. I look at the baby who is completely engrossed with her pumpkin now, and back at the dog who is gently thumping her drool soaked tail against my thigh like she is trying say, “Nope, it’s cool. It’s totally cool with me. She can totally chew on my tail. Treats?”
I looked at my husband and just said, “I am really not going to win Mother of the Year. . . ever.”
The baby just laughed.
2. Do not write too much about work.
I work in a middle school. Every day of my life, I could write a blog about the epic-ness that is my job. But honestly, it would get old or unbelievable because what middle schoolers do would be too much for anyone who doesn’t deal with them day to day. And you may have 1 or 2 at home and be nodding your head, but we have 1000 and the crazy increases exponentially, because on top of making really bizarre choices for LITERALLY NO REASON, they lack the common sense required to be sneaky or even smart about it. But I don’t write about it, because if I did, I would tell you this story:
On morning duty, I was watching a group of boys who are also youth football players hang out and discuss the game. In a jovial manner, they kept pushing and bumping each other. I walked over and said, “Gentlemen, no horseplay. I don’t want to see anyone accidentally get hurt. If I see it again, you are going to have to explain it to the Dean.”
I look away for 10 seconds at a group of girls, and turn back to see one of the boys demonstrating a leg tackle which involved a second boy OVER HIS SHOULDERS HELD BY HIS ANKLES.
Me: “WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!?”
STUDENT 1: “Showing him the tackle that broke this kid’s leg.”
Me: “ Do you not see how this demonstration might result in an injury?”
STUDENT 2: “What? We aren’t on the field.”
Me: “So you don’t see how the CONCRETE MIGHT BE WORSE?!?”
Upon securing him to the ground, I sent them to the Dean, as they argued the whole time about why they shouldn’t be in trouble and were just playing. Finally the assistant principal asked, “What is the ROOT OF HORSEPLAY??” One boy thought for a moment and said, “Play?” Wait for it . . . . “Oooooooh, yeah that makes sense, Miss. Sorry.”
Every day of my life. I am not kidding.
Or two days ago on the walkie-talkie, I was trying to figure out the best way to word, “Are students allowed to wear wizard robes?”
I never figured out a way to say it without sounding insane, so I gave up. If you are interested, the answer is no.
3. I totally cannot remember rule number three. But there was a third rule at one point.
The truth is that when I sit down to write, I like to have a theme, a few asides and anecdotes, and ultimately, the final product centered on those items—one cohesive blog.
He will yet fill your mouth with laughter, and your lips with shouting. Job 8:21
I guess my life is pretty funny, but sometimes, it isn’t what I want to write about.
Faith, Friends, and Flipflops 