So I’ve been at this blogging thing for about a month now and here’s what I’ve learned: if you want to add another guilt-inducing commitment to your life, take up blogging. Because it is a commitment, and just like all your other commitments, it nags you: “Pick me! Where have you been? You haven’t paid attention to me for days. People will lose interest. Do you want to lose friends?” Yada, yada, yada.
The thing is, when life slows down a bit – like maybe you’re trapped in an Arctic blizzard for six months – finding time to blog is no problem. But when life is hectic (read now), you look at the next empty page and your brain goes numb. So to keep up, I thought I’d share some things I’ve written in the past. Some are stories about my grandkids, saved for their future amusement and/or everlasting embarrassment. And here comes one now…
July 18, 2006
I’d just like to say to those people who urged me to choose Option B (babysitting) over Option A (hauling boxes) during my daughter’s move to a bigger home last night that you are without a clue. I didn’t lift heavy objects in 90-degree weather, but I did watch 11-month-old Grace, who used to stay where you put her but is now mobile even though she still doesn’t have a lick of sense, and little Christian, who just turned two and is pretty much fed up with the whole relocation thing and basically just wanted his mother and got mad and threw the butter and the plastic butter dish out the kitchen door, although it landed right-side up, so no harm done.
Well, you ask, what was a 2-year-old doing playing with the butter? That’s a long story and not one that shows me in the best light, so I’m going to ignore it. But if I were you, I’d take with a grain of salt those TV spots shot in grandma’s cozy kitchen, unless of course they also show the grandchild throwing cookie dough out the window.
You love them to pieces, but there’s a whole other side.
Grandma Kissed A Sailor 