I feel as though I have fallen off the wagon, sitting here feeling past and bloated and generally guilty. Which, as we all know does a whole boat load of nothing. The bloat and paste are really more atrophy, the effects of not having written anything that makes my heart soar. I’ve written plenty of captions, brainstormed on captions and drafted pitch letters, but I’ll be darned if I’ve penned a single nursing by moonlight entry or chronicled the morning drop off, or newly created tradition of post-pick-up/pre-drop-off sandwich making with Briar.

I am puffy with waste, tender moments not shared here. I’ve not released the sensation of Avery whispering in my ear, “But mama, I miss fawder bear, I miss him so very much.” Or of Briar trying to make sense of Mimi dying and why Grandma can’t tuck her in. I have a lump in my throat from keeping inside of me the bliss that is Fin at 6.5 months still saying, “mama,” after two babies who picked “dada” to say first.

I need to get back on track, need to write more. I need it for me and I need it for these girls, but like so many who find excuses not to get to the gym, despite knowing it is good for them and makes them feel great, I let myself fall victim to excuses.

I want to do better. I need to do better. I will do better.

Maybe I’ll write about the time that I went upstairs post-bedtime for the 6th time to tend to a sobbing Fin, wondering if it might be ok just this once to take her back downstairs. I was about to tiptoe into her room when Briar called quietly, “Mama? mama, Fin wants you to take her downstairs.”

I crept back downstairs as Fin nursed blissfully, I smiled and called out a soft thank you to Briar for her permission. And then I sat, a milk-drink baby dozing in my arms, as I slipped ever so softly back into my old blog.

Mmm, that was a good one.

Home again.