Life with boys

Today is my birthday. Spring break is OVER. And that, dear friends, is a gift. I love my kids, and they are good ones. Life with boys can be really intense, though. Oh, the sights and sounds and smells of boys. When my sons were younger, I tried to read a book to prepare myself for parenting boys. I got so freaked out, I couldn't get too far into the book. I stopped at the part where the author began describing  pranks that boys will pull--recounting the story of a boy sneaking a pig snout into school and somehow rigging it onto the water fountain. So when someone pressed the button to get water, water sprayed out of the pig snout. We will cross that bridge when we get there. But I can't read about it beforehand. And having a book like that in the house could be dangerous--these people don't need to get any ideas in their heads about pig snouts and water fountains.

I have been meaning and promising and thinking about Writing for too long. So starting this blog is a gift to myself on my 45th birthday. I'll write about my art and the stories and experiences that inspire it, about trying to forge a new identity after 1) being discarded -- um, I mean laid off--2) selling our house and downsizing and 3) the onset of the boys getting older and not needing me as much.

Undoubtedly, I'll end up writing about grieving, sole parenting, parenting biracial kids, and cooking. Knowing me, once in a while, I will rant, weep and moan, and gnash my teeth. I will ask questions that don't have answers--like, how can everyone in the family eat the same thing, and somehow just the boys will end up with gas so bad it makes your eyes water?  Can they do that on command? Why do they think that is funny? And if no one reads it, that's okay--at least the words swirling around in my head all day will have their own little home.