It’s official. I am in love. Nyla and I have made it over the preliminary hurdle of post-adoption angst, regret and mustardy diarrhea. Okay the diarrhea cleared up a while ago.
I’ve become one of those (hopefully) harmless weirdos who baby-talks in an insufferably high-pitched squeal to her dog, out loud, in public (as if I didn’t embarrass the children enough). To the tune of, “Who makes the very best poopy-doopy?” And, “Who’s the cutie-wootiest doggiest-woggiest?” And, when I unleash her after a walk at the foot of the driveway and she bounds toward the backyard like a greyhound-pomeranian mix, “Who runs like the wind?” And later, she licks my face, making sure like a doggie in the frenzied throes of OCD, to try and reach my brain through my left nostril. Repeatedly. (She’s almost there.)
There are times when this happens: I write a blog post and then hours later, usually in the middle of the night, I wake in a panicky sheen. Wide-eyed in the pitch black I think, what the fuck did I put out there? What the hell is my deal? Why did I insist on sharing THAT? I pad into the bathroom and pee, reminding myself that I am human. I give myself a hug. Then I crack open the laptop and delete the sentence, word or paragraph, creep back to bed and fall asleep praying nobody read it.
I have deleted entire posts in this taut, teeming state of mind. And then I regret deleting. I regret it because I always envision one hater. This hater assumes different forms but he/she always thinks the same about me: that I am an idiot. No one’s ever said as much. Sure I’ve had the odd few who ask me, “How can you share all that personal stuff?” But they don’t usually know me very well. If they did, they wouldn’t need to ask. It’s in my DNA.
It’s shameful how scarcely I blog these days. I want to do it more often, to stoke the anemic flame of my online existence, to practice my craft for a reader who is not Bryan, to cultivate a conversation with you.
The good news is that I’m spending my non-blogging time being a more or less decent housewife and mother. Or maybe that’s not even true. (*See previous post.) No, the weather is warm and I’ve been taking hour-long brisk walks, lip-syching with the cast of Glee. These walks help me keep in shape for my new fitness regime—my kettlebells class. I go once a week and it’s one hour of ass-kicking swinging fun. We do routines with names like Turkish Get-Up, and well, I can’t remember any others. If I were doing Crossfit, which I am not because I can’t afford it and it’s just far enough away from my house to be a pain in the ass, I might be doing routines with names like Nasty Girl. Doesn’t that sound like waist-whittling fun? I think it might kill me.