I don’t like to blog about blogging, mainly because I don’t like to read posts about blogging. This is not to knock those who do so; I would just rather hear about diaper explosions, sleepless nights, parenting dilemmas, nights out on the town….you know – life outside of your site. For me, reading blogs about blogging is like listening to a preacher preach about preaching or a singer sing about singing. I’m all, “Really?” And then I move on to something that I find more engaging.

I’m sitting down tonight to write my thoughts on blogging because all signs seem to be pointing that I need to. I have had a number of emails and comments in the last few weeks to do with this thing called Blog and I think I need to get my thoughts about it out there so that I can move on and write about more important things like pre-schooler temper tantrums and seven-year-old’s who think they are seventeen.

The blog-related conversations I have been having seem to fall into two camps: Comments (or lack thereof) and how (or why) to even get started. I had one commenter say that she had thought about starting a blog but didn’t know where to start and asked, “How did you get so many readers, anyway?” Almost five years into this gig, I’ll let you in on my secret: I have no idea. I hope that helps.

Anytime I am asked why I started this site I give an honest answer: I started it as a way for family and friends to see what we’re up to. It’s morphed into more than that, yes, but it is still the core of why I sit down here a few times a week to bang out my thoughts. I am a social creature by nature. Small children and a busy schedule make it almost impossible to catch up with the people in my life and sitting down for a half an hour or so a few times a week to get my thoughts down is an easy way to stay connected. The big stuff is there for people to read and keep up with us. I can then use my other spare moments during the day to catch up on everyone else.

As for the comment thing, I may sound like an old fart but they aren’t what they used to be. Friends who are considered “Big” bloggers have lamented this fact as much as friends who may not have the same traffic numbers. I know that personally, my blog subscribers and readers keep growing, though comments are far less than what they used to be. I once read a statistic that only 2% of readers commented. I think that number has declined to a mere 1%, if not 0.5%. It’s not you; it’s them. Everyone is busy and many people are trying to build their own blog empires and some people might feel like they’re cooler if they don’t comment. Or maybe a billion other reasons.

It’s not like I am immune to “comment anxiety”. Every time (EVERY TIME) I hit publish I feel like a high-fivin’ white girl. I’m standing there, arm in the air, waiting (hoping) for someone to validate me. I’ve gotten better over the years, but GLORY BE was I an insecure mess back when I first started. Now, once I get one sweet soul chiming in, I breathe easy and back away from the “Blow Up The Site” button. All of this to say that you are not alone. Me too. I hear you. We’re soul mates and all of that. Related: It’s the Internet. Let’s not take it too seriously, ‘mmkay?

The people I consider close friends do not buy into the hype. They don’t chime in on the latest Internet drama. They crack me up daily. They write about becoming superheroes. They write about being homeless. They are just awesome. They wonder how they got the life they have. They write about broken relationships and hope for the future. They write about I DON’T KNOW. They do the best Oscar recap EVER. They write about dive bars and about Irishmen. They make the best illustrations on the planet (Including my banner. Yo.) They are as ridiculously crafty as the last girl.  They rock the every day. They make me shout, “TWIN!” They write about life. Including prairie life. And life in New Zealand. They just write.

I could go on, but I think you get the point. If you are one of those people who are befuddled/confused by posts about stats and traffic and SEO and blah, blah, blah… please  don’t give up. There is a whole world of people out there who are just like you. They may not know you (Yet) but they are just. like. you. Possibly? Even more awkward. But you didn’t hear it from me.

Whether you are new or old to this thing called Blog, I want you to keep on keeping on. Do it because you want to. Write when you want to write, comment when you want to comment, and get out in the real world and live your life every chance you get. Unless you’re striving to be the next Dooce (Good luck with that) blogging should not be a stress in your life. It should be something that you consider to be good and fine and FUN. The best way to make it as good as it can be is really, truly simple.

Write like nobody’s reading.

It took me all of two minutes to acknowledge that the reason behind it is the same thing that I’ve been talking about since returning to work. I’d rather be at home.

I am thankful for my job for a long list of reasons. I work with great people, some of whom I consider friends, and not just because they forward me jokes via office email. I have a position that I’m not only comfortable in, but that I’m actually pretty good at. I get paid a fantastic salary and benefits, for which I’m especially thankful for after sitting down with Matthew last week and going over our monthly budget. I know that so many people are without employment, which makes me feel as though I have no right to complain.

But it’s my site and I can whine if I want to.

I know in my head that this is the best thing for my family. We’re living a comfortable life where we can do wild and crazy things like spend money on fruits and vegetables that are out of season. The kids get way more Daddy time that most kids do. I get to play the part of a professional and wear nice clothes and go for solo walks at lunchtime. We’re going to be living this way for a long time so I really need to just get used to the fact and quit my moping.

I’ve adjusted to it all during the bulk of the week. We’re all in the groove of our new routine and the days fly by pretty fast. It’s just the Mondays, man.

We had yet another great weekend together. Busy, which is how our lives will be until the end of days, but good. Saturday even saw me having a nap with Miss Emily after I had Twittered that the odds of me having a nap were about the same as the odds of me winning a Gold medal.

The nap was a great idea because after we woke up I decided to give Matthew a break from parenting. I took all three kids to the mall to shop for work clothes and then on to Costco. By myself. On a SATURDAY. It was…fine. Everywhere we went I was complimented on how (cute, and) well-behaved my kids were. I am so ridiculously proud of them. (Please don’t hate me.)

The warm(er) weather we’ve been having meant that we spent a lot of time outside on Sunday. There was road hockey, baseball, bike riding, swing pushing (My least favorite) and general Good Times. Let me show you.

After having a weekend where we played hard and laughed even harder the drive to the office on a Monday morning always includes heavy sighs and a mopey mood.

But, hey. It’s Tuesday. It’s a whole new day. I’ve got six days until Monday hits me again.

My kids and I have a routine that happens whenever one of us says, “I love you”. The response is never a simple, “I love you” or the standard, “I love you too.” The response is always (ALWAYS) “I love you more“.

(Close friends of mine have been subjected to this response as well whenever we email. If they throw out a “Love you!” I always (ALWAYS) lob back with, “I love you more“. Because I do.)

One example of this exchange occurs during the bedtime routine with Miss Emily. We will read a story and pray about all of the things she is thankful for. I will tuck her in, kiss her (Sweet, chubby) cheek and say, “I love you.” She replies with “I love you!” Then, as I walk towards the door, I throw out an, “I love you MORE.”

Her: “I love you more.”

Me: “I love you more.”

Her: “I love you more more more.”

Me: “I love you more more more.”

Her (as I’m closing the door): “I love you more.”

Me (Swinging the door back open): “I love you more.”

Her: “OK.”

This happens every. single. night.

The day that it doesn’t happen will see me as a weeping, crumpled mess on the floor. I said as much elsewhere and so many people replied that they still have this routine with their parents, decades later. It (made me cry, and) gave me hope that we can keep up this up until infinity.

Without going into details that will hurt anyone else, I am incredibly thankful for and in love with my kids for a reason. They are everything I wished I could be when I was a kid myself and they are a thousand times more amazing than I ever dreamed them to be. I simply cannot believe that these three beautiful beings have been entrusted to me. I catch myself looking at them and wondering how and why and what the heck?

I love you more only scrapes the surface of what I feel when I when I look at them, but it is the only way I know how to articulate it. Because I do. Love them more.

I love to give him the chance to get away to balance out my solo excursions and my return to full-time employment. Daddy Daycare is demanding what with the shuttling to and from school, the laundry, the grocery shopping, the meals to cook, the house to clean…you all know the drill. He’s also working part-time in between dealing with everything else and (more than) deserved a rest. If you can call maneuvering a big beastly machine through snow drifts a rest, that is.

In addition to being happy that he gets a break, I wait in anticipation for him to arrive home and hand over my point-and-shoot camera. He has no desire to learn how to use the 7D but has such an incredible eye that I’m always excited to see what he does with the Powershot. I do my (tiny) part on the editing side but he gets full credit for the shots taken.

It almost makes me want to embrace winter and take up snowmobiling. Almost.

As for me, I’m still happy but really feeling the weight of life on my shoulders. This week marks the first week that I need to work overtime to compensate for the crunch of tax season. Instead of wiping out my entire Saturday, I’ve chosen to arrive at work an hour early each weekday so that I can pull a shorter day on the weekend. This sees me rising for the day shortly after five o’clock in the AM. It’s only (Only!) for nine weeks but I’m only (Only!) four days in and already feeling that come April 30th I’ll be rocking a look that closely resembles that of a Zombie. I’d rather be a Vampire, though, because then I would not only not need sleep, I would be all sparkly and ethereal.

There’s also all of the life commitments and extra-curricular activities that start piling on now that spring is ready to burst. If they could wait until May 1st, it would be fantastic, but it appears that the world does not revolve around me. Good to know.

We’ve been hammering out the logistics and will make it work…somehow. I just hate that feeling of running from dawn until dusk with nary a moment to sit and just breathe.

This is why I am sitting here typing after the kids are in bed. Those photos have been edited and waiting for me to share them since Sunday and I’ve been aching to do so. Playing with photos and writing it out makes me feel like the pendulum of my life is swinging a little bit back to the center.

Besides. How can you look at the beauty of nature and not feel your soul do a big, peaceful sigh?

By the time I got to my desk I realized that the upset stomach had to do with the fact that I was sad. About nothing in particular at all. The reason for The Sad is common to all women, thanks to those cyclical female hormones.

I tried to think of the underlying reasons that had brought out the sad but that only made me sadder (Complete with watery eyes and sniffles). While I actually do have some things to be sad about, I have far more things to be thankful for. And while there is nothing wrong with validating your feelings, there is also nothing wrong with acknowledging them and then moving on. I decided that the best thing I could do for myself was to list some things that make me happy.

It worked. Let me share a few of the things that I jotted down.

***

Graham’s freckles. And his quick wit. And how he hugs me SO TIGHT.

Nathan’s eyelashes. And the way his face beams with delight when you ask him for a hug.

Emily’s curls. And her big blue eyes. And her lisp.  (“I’m going to put my bookth in my purth.”)

Lists.

It’s March. I now drive both to and from work in daylight and it makes the days that much better.

Taking photos. Editing photos. Sharing what I know. Pretty much anything photography related.

Reading a good book.

That Tamara has given me my own coupon code to get a discount on every. single. purchase. at La Coquette Boutique. Also! I won a $50 gift card she was giving away. I teased her that she rigged it, but nope. The random generator chose my order.

Sunshine and fresh air.

Morning snuggles with my munchkins.

Cookie dough.

Friday night “cheat night” (Nachos/pizza/random Appy Of The Week).

Scrabble/Words With Friends.

Speaking of friends, each and every one of them/you who has ever said a kind word to me. Words of encouragement make my heart fly.

Laughing so hard that I cry and can barely breathe. (See: last Saturday while watching ballet with Amanda. Girl is funny.)

Whatever the exact opposite moment in time from Monday morning is.

***

There’s much more but I have things to do and books to read and sleep to chase. What makes you happy?

It is no secret that I have had the opportunity to go on short trips far more times than (the average Mom, and) my dear husband. This past weekend the scales finally tipped a little in his direction. After weeks of planning, he headed up to a cabin at a local ski hill with his two best buds so that they could fire up their big machines. Snowmobiles, you pervs.

Due to a few snags in the preparation side of things (Snowmobile brake line, something, something, connection valve, something, something), I left work at noon on Friday to start my weekend of solo parenting earlier than anticipated. Luckily for me (/sarcasm) I got to take Emily to our Doctor in order to get a mole removed by BURNING IT WITH LIQUID NITROGEN. This is the third time that I’ve had to hold her while she cried and my heart hurt more than I was comfortable with. I asked the Doctor the name of this type of mole and it sounded something like Giganticus Painintheassidness. It is a type of mole that shows up in the first year of life and will continue to grow in size if it is not stopped in its tracks. She “was mean” (Her words) this time, and if it comes back a fourth time we’ll have to go to a dermatologist to have it surgically removed. Super.

We arrived home to a Daddy-free house. I “got to” solo-parent for forty-eight hours and it was awful. The kids woke up both nights; one to pee, one to need water and one to barf. The lack of sleep caused meltdowns galore on their part and many (empty threats, and) big, heavy sighs on my part. I barely survived it all.

I’m totally lying. My kids are in that magical age where they no longer need their diapers changed/bottles warmed up/clothes put on by me and want to make Mommy proud. They have also not yet reached the age where they don’t care what I think/have been invaded by pre-teen hormones/turn into alien beings. They’re fifty shades of rad.

Friday night consisted of the five of us (My brother Lance makes me a little less scared when Matthew is away) watching the Canadian hockey team win the quarterfinal. I had told the kids they could watch their shows on the other T.V. if they wanted, but they refused. It made this rabid hockey fan burst with pride.

Saturday was cleaning (They helped! Really!)(After I threatened taking away the treat of a McRaunchy lunch, but still), ballet, errands and lunch at Rotten Ronnie’s. I was all excited to treat myself to a tasty salad but they were out of salads. ALL OF THEM. Nicely played, McDonald’s, but I’ll spare myself the gut rot, thankyouverymuch. I had a Diet Coke as a treat instead. Don’t judge me.

Saturday afternoon consisted of hours (HOURS) spent outside playing in the warm sunshine. I know we’ll probably be besieged with a snowstorm next week but good grief it felt nice to be outside and be warm.

Sunday was yet another stellar day. I slept well, the kids slept in and then crawled into my bed for a snuggle. Then there was that whole Canada/U.S. hockey game deal. You know, THE ONE WHERE WE BEAT THE U.S.A AND WON THE GOLD MEDAL. It happened after hours spent pacing, holding my breath and screaming. I love my American friends, and their team put up the good fight, but…CANADA. WON. GOLD. I love my country.

I won’t say that the weekend was easy, as all of the care of my three little beings rested upon my shoulders. I was “on” all day. They play independently, yes, but I had nobody to pass the Torch of Responsibility to so that I could get work done/just shut down for a bit from the moment they woke up until the moment they crawled into bed.

I also missed being able to tell Honey all of the little (funny) things that happen during the day, though he did see this nugget on Facebook and commented on it:

Emily put a flag pole between her legs and said, “Hey Mommy! Look at my wiener!” Honey? It’s time to cut that out. She’s paying attention.

His reply: “That’s my girl!”

I love my family.

I’m happy that he got the chance to get away and I’m happy that I got more time with the kids than I normally do but I’m exponentially happier when we’re all together.

*I dressed the kids in red on Sunday morning to show unity with Team Canada. We. Are. Canadian.