This Is Not A Mummy Blog

While the little one sleeps, I'm stealing a moment to update my very loved and completely neglected blog. But if I loved it so, would I neglect it in this fashion? Sure. I think of it like long lost friends - the ones who, no matter how long you are apart, act the same when they see you again. Some bonds you simply cannot break. This blog is one of those bonds. For crying out loud, I've had this damn thing since 2006. That's ten years!

Ten years of blogging. Someone get me a medal. No seriously. Do you know how many people start blogs and abandon them without care or concern? Thousands. There are literally thousands of lost blogs floating around the interweb with one or two posts and then - nothing. How tragic. And yet, here I am. Still plugging away on what use to be That Girl Tyson. Sure, I only posted a handful of times last year, but I posted 339 times in 2014. That's almost a blog a day, which is actually what I was going for.

Trust me when I say there is a lot of hidden content on here. After ten years, there are probably close to a hundred posts I've turned to drafts again in hopes of them being forever forgotten. Not simply because there were riddled with poor grammar, which they were, but because they are too private or silly. Either or. The others I've gone back and re-edited, hoping to clear away the errors.

In fact, I just edited my last post and found four errors. Unacceptable. I can't believe I hit publish without correcting 'excitement' and 'friendships'. I even misspelled 'will'. It's a four letter word, how the hell did I misspell it? Probably something to do with sleep deprivation and carb-overdosing. Yes, I don't sleep enough and I am eating too much food. Some will say I need the food to create the milk to feed the babe, but the truth is my breasts are a big dodgy and have issues sustaining life. Long story short, this isn't a mummy blog. So we will end that right here. 

The point of this post is to tell you this isn't going to be all about my wee infant. I am not going to post photos and updates, and talk about the pros and cons of motherhood. There will be no tricks to putting a babe to sleep or ways to make the bitty one stop bawling, I don't know those types of things anyway. Isn't the best approach to simply repeat "please stop crying" and "please go to sleep" over and over? Or am I doing this wrong. 

So, this ins't a mummy blog, as the title states. Except, the problem is, he's currently my entire existence. Whenever I get to thinking about writing a little blip here, it's always about him. I have five drafts I simply didn't share with you because it's all about him and his perfect mouth and hands and bum and eyes. And then there are those times I want to write about the birth. Mostly, I think, because I still have PTSD from his entrance into the world and, well, I want to talk about all the gory details. Just to put them down somewhere. Because people always say you forget the details of the birth and, quite frankly, I don't want to. I want to remember everything, from the sound my waters made when they broke them to the poop I left behind on the floor. Too much information? Sorry not sorry. Birthing is beautiful. It's disgustingly beautiful. Horrifically beautiful. Batshit beautiful. 

Batshit beautiful. Now, that's a saying I can see catching on. I'm trademarking it. 

To clear things up, I don't have anything against mummy blogs, except for the fact that I don't think people really want to read them. I mean, I've read my fair share as I try to stumble through being a mom, but everything has already been said about parenting. I certainly don't have anything worthy to add. So, I promise I won't write about the Timbit all the time - but sometimes, yes, because I can't help myself! The thing is, just because he consumes my life right now doesn't mean I won't have other thoughts later. I suppose I am making a promise. Not just to you, but to myself as well. I promise to write again. Not only blogs but novels and stories too. I am determined to be creative. Maybe not right now, but it's coming. Big things are coming. I can feel it in my bones. And on that day, watch out.

Ten years and I am still toiling away. Labour of love, indeed. Actually, October is my true ten year anniversary here, according to my first posted blog. So, I suppose I'll throw a party then and someone will get me a tin gift. It's tin for ten years right? 

I'm sure I will have become a big, successful, household named author by then. Go ahead, laugh with me. 

To My Mum

Happy Birthday, Mum.

Sometimes, as we grow up, we forget our parents are real people. When you get older, and hopefully wiser, you see them in a new light. They are human beings and they have thoughts, feelings, hopes and dreams, ideas and expectations, disappointments and blessings, hurts and comforts. When you first realize this, you have to sit down, especially when you start recounting all the stupid things you did and said, how uncaring your teenage years were. How you never really stopped to think about what your parents may have wanted out of life and how you may have messed up that plan.

If you're lucky, your parents become your friends. Sure, they are still that authority figure you hated having as a kid and love having as a grown up. Someone to turn to and count on. A person who will, even though you hate it, tell you you're being dumb, even when you think you're being smart. As you get older, you turn towards your parents, like I have. I go to you when I am lost and confused, broken and beaten, but also when I have joyous things to report. You are my friend, mum. You are the one I want to talk to when I discover a new truth about life or when I have debunked an idea I thought to be true.

I am lucky to have you in my life. A person who cares unconditionally for me and wants me to be happy. That's truly a wonderful thing to me. To know, no matter where I go or what I do, that there is at least one person in my corner, rooting for me, on my team. It's nice to know I have backup, who will listen, and defend, fight if need be, and if not, then send Dad to do some dirty work.

Life is complicated and weird. Sometimes I don't know up from down, but through all the complicated weirdness, I know you are there. To offer what advice you can. And when you have no advice, to simply say, "I don't know what to tell you" and it's funny because even that feels good, because at least we have no idea together.

There is beauty here on this Earth, despite the complications and weirdness. While I certainly inherited your introverted quirks, your misanthropic tendencies, I also won your love of nature. Your ability to cherish creatures big and small. And I am cultivating your respect for Mother Nature and all she holds, teaching anyone who will listen how important it is to listen, watch, and feel the sun, moon and stars. I take notice of the dew glittering like diamonds as it clings to the blades of grass in the morning sun. This is your imprint on me.

When I am walking along and I am dumbstruck by the beauty of what surrounds me, I think of you. It happens daily. And we hold a connection that vibrates through this earth and will always exist, no matter what. This gives me comfort. It gives me peace.

There are many things I want to thank you for, but there are not enough words or time to do so. We'd be here for hours. Days. Months. This is a blanket thank you. A blanket I love you. And a blanket, I'm thinking of you.

Xox