It’s 7:30 on a Wednesday night. I just finished up the dinner dishes, all but a cobalt blue Anchor mixing bowl full of crusty, week old mashed potatoes, left over from an unfortunate potato incident. I finally threw them out after a week of telling myself I could make something out of them. The kids are at Awanas, and Atleigh is in bed- early- after four tantrums, one of which included turning down cookie dough ice cream, of all things. You know it’s bedtime when your two year old turns down ice cream. It’s Jeremy’s weekly Black Ops dude date with his buddies. I can hear him on the phone, coaching my dad on how to hook up his Bluetooth so he can join in the massacre.
I’ve let myself be discouraged today, friends. Worse, I haven’t let myself be encouraged. I’ve gotten down on myself, gotten angry at my husband and my kids, gotten my feelings hurt, and gotten offended by someone I don’t even really know, and who certainly doesn’t know me. I wonder how I’ve let myself get to this point; sitting here moping, my gut twisting on the sour taste of my supposed failure. To put it baldly, I’m having the mother of all pity parties.
The truth hurts, even when I’m the one to say it. I suppose I should be grateful no one else has.
I’ve been asking myself why I write this blog. What do I hope to accomplish? Do I want to write for the sake of writing? If I did, a journal would surely suffice. Jeremy tells me, “Just write because you love it. Who cares if people read it?” But I do. I care. Maybe I want to reach people. I feel like I haven’t. Who wants to read how many different types of boring my week has been? I wouldn’t, not if I wasn’t me.
See what I mean? Pity party. Not a cry for help. Not asking for approbation or soothing shoulder pats. But if I’m using this blog to purge, maybe I should do just that. If no one is reading, why should I be ashamed of what I have to say?
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