Write a book...

Write a book they said...

A little over a year ago (hello old mom with newly added baby number four) we all got lice. Yes, lice. Well, blessedly not Brad. Neither my sanity nor his delicate sensibilities could have handled that. Oh and the baby. She's probably never been so thankful to be bald.

It was a nightmare. You can't fathom the horrors. I mean we survived (thank God for my mom, sister, and mother in law). They're just bugs after all and we soldiered through. Night after night of combing strand after strand of long, thick hair and applying bottle after bottle of the strongest, deadliest chemicals I could find. FDA approved of course. They're my children, after all. Brad only (seriously) threatened to shave all our heads and burn down the house once, so all in all, he was relatively calm. 

So, I said if I ever wrote a book, this was going to be the cover. 

Or maybe this. 

Cause our life is a never ending shit-show and I've got a front row, life-time season pass. Which, not so secretly, I relish. I love the chaos. I'm tired, and can be cranky, running on fumes, and a full on hot mess. But it's the only way I can imagine it. Quiet, mild mannered, obedient children? What would I do!?

I've started this...whatever it is...countless times. In many formats.

Piper once asked me when she was about 4 what I wanted to be when I grew up. I told her a writer. She said, "Oh, like on a bus? That'll be good mom. We need people to do that, too." She has all the faith in me.

There are a lot of restless, jumbled thoughts and words churning inside of me and it feels right to put them down 'on paper'. But there's a lot of lingering doubt, too. A long list of doubts.

Who has time? Four kids have pretty much depleted that pool. This could also easily be the safe space I retreat to when I'm feeling overwhelmed by all the other doubts (see below). It's easier to just say, "I don't have time," than it is to push myself to make it happen. For 10 years, for this same reason, I just accepted that I was 15-20 pounds overweight, because I 'didn't have time' to workout or put in the work to eat right. It's not easy at first, for sure. But once you get going you gradually work your new lifestyle into the flow and pretty soon, you can't remember anything else. But getting over that initial hump, making that leap? So, so hard. Nearly impossible. Nearly.

Am I talented enough? I think so? I feel like a writer. I feel compelled by and drawn to it. It's a passion. It's therapeutic. It's fun. And freedom. But comparatively, am I talented? I just don't know. My insecurities push me towards no. A few years ago, I took, what I thought in my opinion, were my funniest, wittiest, BEST, blurbs, blogs, and writings, and submitted them to an online blog in hopes of being one of their contributors. They were actively looking and hiring. It felt promising. I felt excited. I waited. Not one response. Not even a generic denial email or sad face emoji. Nothing. I've read the inspiring stories of all the "greats" who were rejected countless times and all it took was one yes. THE yes. They embraced their failures and used them to turn metal into gold. But they're the Michael Jordan's and Walt Disney's of the world. I'm just me. I really could be plain ole' fools gold. Somebody's gotta be, right? But no one shares those stories, because it isn't motivating. It's not interesting. It's the stories people like me tell. 

"Remind yourself that you cannot fail at being yourself." (per Wayne W. Dyer--author, ironically.) Recently, I've become really interested in authenticity. In just old fashioned, raw living as the you, you were meant to be and becoming really comfortable in that. Not feeling the envy or draw of comparison or competition. But not many outlets in our world are built that way. Life is somewhat of a race and you're placing somewhere. I'm rarely the first one crossing the finish line at anything. But is the triumph just in the race? That's cliche I know. But if I can find joy in making that leap for myself, is that alone worth it? Regardless of anyone else's judgement? It takes a confident (maybe somewhat oblivious) person to settle into that. Oblivious, I can do. Confidence is trickier. 

Am I interesting enough? I don't know. I feel very one-dimensional sometimes. Like all I know is being a mom.  Somewhat interesting (although common) and relatable if you're a mom, but not so much if you're not. Oddly enough, my greatest wish in life, was to be a mom. And it's everything I dreamed of. I mean that's something moms say, right? There's a lot of figurative and literal puke and poop, too, but for the most part I feel fulfilled as a mom. I feel blessed and grateful, and honored, honestly. I haven't always been a mom, though. Nine years or so. Who was I before that? Was I even less interesting? I had to have goals, hobbies, opinions, and thoughts outside of momma-hood at one point, didn't I? Sparks of inspiration will flourish from something I've read or watched or experienced. I'll start out so energized and full of hope. "This is it!" I'll tell myself. And then just as quickly and brightly as it started, it'll fizzle out faster than a flat soda.

Organized enough? No. Hard no. Oh, hell no. I can find grounds on which to blame all the failures in my life. Kids, time, money, work (those are my excuses, not my failures)... But I'm just not organized. I'll avoid, ignore, delay, and deflect a problem area until it's literally shoved in my lap, screaming. And even then, I'll still try. 

Driven enough? "It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are."--E.E. Cummings. There are a lot of workings of the adult world which I've just blissfully, conveniently blocked out and skated on by. Money management for instance. General ledgers, banking, loans, taxes, and other vague financial words that mean nothing to me? Sure, show me where to sign. Luckily, my husband thinks I'm cute (or dangerous) and handles these things for me (sweet Lord have mercy if anything should happen to him). I'm smart enough to know there's more to writing a book than just writing, but not entirely smart enough to know what those things are. And a lot of those unknowns require stepping pretty deeply outside my comfort zone. Knowing that I might be setting myself up for failure, but doing it anyway. Maybe hearing no or other harsh, humiliating, or humbling narratives. I don't consider myself thin-skinned, but still a pretty tough pill to swallow.

But. What if? What if all the secret dreams and aspirations of being a *famous* (all the covered eyes/ears/mouth emojis on that one), published author were a reality? What if I bared and faced all my vulnerabilities as a woman and wife and mom and sister and daughter and Christian and...just, human. And just did it. Or even if I failed? Would it be worth it? Generally accepted schools of thought would indicate so.

So, what's stopping me? (Me. I'm what's stopping me.)

I need a boost. Or a shove. Maybe a heave-ho or blast in the general direction of bravery. Maybe just Jameson? Irish whiskey has only failed me a handful of times (most notably a bachelor-ette party in Laramie, Wyoming) and, really, that depends on your perspective.

Time is moving exponentially faster, the further I move through this life. I hate being cliche, but apparently its my thing today, so I'll own it. Someday I'll be 90 (give or take) and on my deathbed and when I look back, will I be proud? Content? Full of guilt and regret? Mercifully, maybe I won't have that moment. Maybe that moment is now. Either way, that moment is moving on and nothing will stop it. I won't get it back and I'm making less sense the longer I write this, so maybe it's time to take my musings elsewhere. Just out-loud thinking today. 

 What's the feather in your cap? Your would be deathbed regret. Your Mount Everest. The pinnacle of all you ever wish you could be or achieve...

Are you living it? 

Have you done it?

Does it involve Irish Whiskey?