Like most of the country, we are dealing with the polar vortex, which is an absolutely awesome name for a villain, by the way. Unlike most of the country (I truly truly hope), our heat went out last night. We woke up, burrowed into the bed like a family of moles, to an inside temperature around 40 degrees and falling fast. Some panic ensued. Super Toddler's hands felt like ice cubes. 3 panicky calls to the landlady produced nothing but "your renter's insurance should pay for a hotel," so Awkward Dad (who is a healer by profession and not naturally skilled in the home-craft arts) took matters into his own hands and relit the pilot light. This is no easy task. The heating in our rented house is strange and the pilot light was never installed properly, rendering it at a funky angle from where the handy little manual says it is supposed to be. Luckily, we didn't blow up and he got it relit. That was at 7 this morning, it is now 3pm and finally starting to crawl upwards of 55 degrees in here. I am calling this battle a tentative win, but the war is far from over. It is January 7th in Michigan. It is far far from over.
Snow Days give one a lot of time to think. Well, 8-month pregnant women who just can't handle taking anyone sledding, that is. The Supers are content to watch Netflix and create elaborate hobbit homes out of the dismantled Christmas tree.
Sometimes they prefer to just use the bin.
And considering that they spent the entire snow day yesterday playing nicely together and trooping though the house looking for the "land of ponies and monster trucks," it is fair to say they don't need a whole lot from me right now.
Please don't worry about the sockless feet here, this was yesterday, before the pilot light decided it hated us. And no, your eyes are not playing tricks on you, we did move the couch around. I needed something to take my mind off the endless thoughts that are running through it right now.
Thoughts like.....this is the year that I turn 36. Tolstoy wrote War and Peace when he was 35. What have I written but a bunch of strange blog posts with comic overtones, obscure references, and silly, although adorable, pictures of my children? Is this the year I am finally gonna write that book? Maybe not War and Peace, but something more than these fleeting blurbs into the interweb. But then, the other thoughts come, and they aren't merely curious. They are downright negative.
Don't bother, Awkward Mom. You haven't even mastered the art of blogging, what makes you think you can write a book? Other "mommy blogs" always seem to click with people. Other "mommy blogs" get passed around Facebook with glowing accolades and deep sighs of empathy and understanding. Other "mommy blogs" turn into book deals. Other "mommy blogs" this. Other "mommy blogs" that. Maybe other mommy blogs don't overuse quotation markers......
Point is, these are dangerous thoughts and not remotely helpful or useful. I have always maintained that the internet is big enough for every voice on it. I want to believe that. But at the end of the day, even I am kinda overwhelmed by the powerful and beautiful writers out there writing about motherhood. It's kinda all been said, hasn't it? And I say it so darn awkwardly. Who really wants to read that? And if we are talking about creating a book, who wants to pay for that? Or wait patiently on a library list, for my frugal friends out there. Either way, I am defeating myself before I begin, and I am blaming the polar vortex because it is easier than blaming nearly 36 years of low self-esteem, a deep fear of failure, and perhaps just plain ol' mediocre writing to begin with.
OK, before these thoughts force me to rearrange another room, riddle me this, Readers; would you wait on a library wait list for Awkward Mom, the book? Don't just be nice here, Readers; I seriously want to know. On a related note, what kind of posts do you want to see in the new year? Let it be known that you can request nothing but pictures like this one:
That sounds like a better blog to me anyway.