For the record, nothing on this here website works the way I want it to.  And it’s funny, being back here on the Blogger platform.  The first post I ever published was on this very platform, although at a different, long-since retired address – one of those chapters I mentioned yesterday

To be fair, I attempted to start this little ditty on a different platform, but quickly remembered that left to my own devices, I’m much more suited to the very, very user-friendly design of Blogger.  Perhaps I’ll get some assistance from a certain fellow who knows his way around the backend of a website.  Or, maybe I’ll figure it out on my own.  To be determined.

I realized the sudden urgency to (re)start this blog is probably related to the fact that Imbolc is upon us, and as the patron saint and holy goddess of this ancient festival, Brigid reminds us to remain hopeful in the darkness of winter, and to honor and keep our traditions as they sustain us through any circumstance.

Writing has always been one of my most important personal traditions.  And while pen-and-paper-journaling will always, always be near and dear to my sentimental heart, there is something to this medium that draws me in, compels me to participate.

I mean, what even is a blog anymore?  I’m not sure anyone has the answer!  All these different social media channels, all these different algorithms.  I find it only slightly overwhelming.  As for me, I’ve never really been a creator of visual content beyond words on a screen.  So, while I can’t very well tell you what a blog is supposed to be these days, I can tell you what this blog is supposed to be.


I want this space to tell my story, honestly.  For better or worse.  I’ve never been very good at chronicling the latter, and there has been plenty of it to account for the many, many extended hiatuses I have taken over the course of my tenure as One Who Writes Online.  I suppose this is my way of attempting to commit to this practice without any expectation other than showing up and saying something.

The littlest one has been home fevering all week long.  He almost always comes down with some sort of illness around his birthday, poor guy.  Thankfully, he appears to be on the mend.  Fingers crossed we avoid the doctor’s office.

Secretly, I’ve been enjoying having an ailing Huckleberry to tend to.  He’s been extra cuddly, wanting all of my attention at all hours of the day and night, and I’ve been more than happy to oblige.  He even fell asleep on me in the bath yesterday, and I’ll admit I lingered there a few extra minutes to soak up all the sweetness. 

I think I’ll always be the kind of mama whose arms long for the weight of a baby, and not just because I never got to hold my last baby, but because babies just don’t keep.  They get so big long before we’re ready for them to outgrow our laps, and then they keep on growing.

Thankfully, mine have grown into spectacular people.  I could not be more proud of the way they each move through this world.  But I will never, ever not jump at the chance to drop everything and indulge in the moments when they need me the way they did when they were babies.

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