It’s a miracle any writing is getting done around here at all. Half the time I sit down to work and my brain’s all super scattered, bouncing around like a hamster on speed (or so I’d imagine).
You want to know how chaotic my noodle is? I was getting my hair done yesterday – hallelujah! no more gray! – and told my hairdresser I was pretty sore since I’d started working out again. (Seven days and counting, baby, feel the burn!) So she asked “where” and do you know what I told her? My groin muscle.I told her my groin muscle was where I wassore. This forced her to ask the awkward follow up question of “so are you going to the Y?” Because of course my hairdresser was asking where I’m working out, NOT what part of my body is sore.
Holy Moses on a trampoline, it’s been that sort of week.
It’s finally here, y’all. The Last Day Of School. Amen, hallelujah! Pour the champagne. Smoke ’em if you got ’em.
We are 200% over this year. I cannot express how little I care about any of the things. Any of the things. Shoot, this week it’s been a win if the kids remember their lunches. Everything else? Purely head above water, baby.
You know what I hear in my head right now? Blah, blah, blahty blah blah. How am I supposed to make a good blog post out of that? Huh?
So what’s really great for someone with writer’s block? To have a very important e-mail show up while I’m trying to write today’s post, so now I can’t write either the blog or the response and to be honest I’m kinda starting to freak out a little. Not better-grab-the-inhaler freaking out, but it’s not the most comfortable feeling in the world.
Something kind of weird is happening – my kids’ friends are following me on Instagram. No biggie, really, I save my most colorful language for twitter, but that’s not the point. My social media is linked to the blog. (Hey, you’re following me on Insta, right? Because I totally want you to follow me. It’s the sixth graders that have me flummoxed.) It’s a public account so anyone can follow, and Riddle from the Middle is listed in my profile. Which means Bear’s friends can click over and read the stuff here.
And there’s the conundrum. Because I write truth. But some of my truth is, well…truthy. And it’s all wrapped up in someone else’s truth. So what am I supposed to do with that? There’s a fine line here between oversharing and honest writing, and it might be time to reevaluate the difference.