Something odd happens when you start losing interest in watching television.
About 4 months ago, my dear family made the financial decision to drop down to limited basic cable. This began as a travesty. The amount of despair incurred from such a change to our everyday was substantial. And pathetic. Now that No Cable has rounded the dreaded "3-month hump"(this is a reference to my days of dating. I don't know if the "3-month hump" exists for all, but that was when I broke up with most of my boyfriends, realizing that it would never work. I am trying to make that idea work in this context. Go with me.) a few key things have happened:
Number one: The cable bill is REALLY low. Awesome.
Number two: Anything the kids have available to watch is commercial free and educational. Awesome.
Number three: Darling Husband has to watch all sports on the computer. That means I don't get the computer at will. Not awesome, but not devastating.
Number four: All the grown-up shows are ridiculous. Not awesome.
Number five: All four of us are reading more. WAY awesome.
Number six: With all of this reading I am doing, I feel the need to write. Awesome...?
I have never toted myself as a writer. So you, dear reader, are in for quite a treat. No one enjoys a badly written journal more than myself, so I figured, why not treat someone else to the same pleasure? You're welcome.
I have written a blog before. You can look at it if you want at ifevecandoit.blogspot.com . It's not that interesting. I wrote it when I was a stay-at-home mom, with few friends, no adult interaction, and a short fuse. Now I am a new woman! I have a job that I love, a few more friends, a healthy amount of adult interaction, and...well...an equally short fuse. Can't win 'em all.
Even with this new life filled with friends and buddies and people-who-know-what-I'm-saying-if-I-use-the-word-"intrepid"-in-a-sentence, I find myself missing the glorious outlet of what I call "literary processing". Processing via the written word. As I get into all the glorious books I am now reading, I see myself getting jealous of the characters. I get to join them in their journey because it is written down. They get to work through their thoughts by expressing them on the page. Why can't I do that? I want to be able to figure it out, too!
I have a family. Three adorable boys, ages 3, 6, and 32. The youngest is a solid mass of adorable, stubborn, and muscle. I will refer to him as Brick House. I understand the song "Brick House" is about a woman, so please refrain from pointing that out to me, but the term describes his personality and physique with uncanny accuracy.
My 6-year-old is slight, emotional, and devilishly handsome. I will refer to him as Dash, as he is a very quick runner and Dash is a Disney character that he very much associates with.
My oldest boy is the one that I married. He is gentle, loving, and gorgeous. The term I used for him in my last blog was "Big Love", and I'm sticking with that. It is impossible not to love this man. He is one of those men that you meet and think, "That, there, is one cool guy." I am a lucky, and extremely grateful, gal.
I have a job. I work at my home church here in town. When we moved from The South back to the Left Coast, we were fortunate enough to land in an amazing body of believers. "The Chapel" has been a truly inspirational place to grow in Christ, both personally and as a family. I am a different person now, largely in part to the support I have received from this community. And after working for a year and a half at a job that was not for me, God threw me into the staff of The Chapel doing exactly what I want to be doing. I relish the moments of connecting with fellow Jesus followers, planning fun events, and witnessing Jesus work in the lives of many.
I have a home. I wouldn't call it a house, per se, but definitely a home. We live in a 3 bedroom 850 sq. ft. apartment, along with our hand-me-down furniture, fridge/freezer full of meat, and Big Love's stunning supply of clothes which currently reside in every closet of the house. I am constantly donating things to Goodwill so we don't become hoarders, and our walls have nothing on them except finger-painted construction paper pumpkins that have been hanging on the door since 2010. We trip over each other, but everyone has their own room. It's home.
I have a pretty great life, considering. It is, however, a constant reminder of how put together I am not. It is a constant reminder of how much growing I have to do. It is a constant reminder that I am in the palm of the Creator, and He has taken a shining to little ol' me.