I've been posting my blog entries on Facebook for a while. Not usually the mundane ones, just the ones I think might be entertaining. And I still catch myself saying to people in real life, "Wow, how did you know that??" and them saying "Dude, you blabbed all about it in your blog."
Sometimes it makes me uncomfortable to have people I actually know reading this. I'm prone to exaggeration and embellishment for the sake of a good story, which I don't try to hide, but sometimes I can take it too far. When I know people are reading, it helps me keep it under control.
Life has been good lately. So good. I'm losing weight, and I have more energy. Spring is coming. I live IN THE MOUNTAINS. I'm finding more and more enjoyment in my children.
This may come as a shock to you, I know, but I think playing with kids is boring. Really, really boring. I know my kids need interaction and affection. They get plenty of both. But I have to make myself. I find them interesting, but the things they like to do bore me to tears. 2.0 is really into peek-a-boo these days. Cute as it is, I can only keep up "Where's Emmy? THERE SHE IS!" for about ten minutes at a time.
But lately, I've become more content just sitting on the living room floor, watching them play and playing with them. I don't know why. It just happened. It makes me happy.
I think part of it is that they're such fun to watch together. The other day I watched Grace get a running start across the living room, tackle Emmy in a bear hug and yell, "I LOVE YOU!"
I have gotten ONE spontaneous "I love you!" from her. She'll say it in response to me saying it, but never out of the blue like that.
We had friends over for dinner last night. The first time I have someone over, I'm very nervous. I kept checking the stupid chicken over and over again (I used breasts instead of legs and thighs like the recipe called for) and overdid the olive oil because I was worried about it drying out. So it took an extra 20 minutes. Idiot.
But it turned out pretty good.
See, there I go second-guessing myself. I'm so insecure by nature. It's ridiculous. Thank you, evil elementary school classmates. But I can't blame a herd of small children twenty years ago for all my problems.
I was fretting about everything under the sun last night while I went to sleep (which was all for naught, as my sick child kept me up until almost 4 in the morning). I imagined them going home saying, "Oh my gosh. We are never eating THERE again. Did you see how much oil was in the chicken dish? Ugh. How can they live like that?" And then I had a moment of clarity.
NICE PEOPLE DON'T DO THAT. They don't CARE. They don't make personal judgments based on how the stupid chicken tasted.
So my goal for the next month is to put the smack down on that voice of insecurity every time it pipes up. It's getting old, third grade self. Most adults aren't prepubescent Jeff Jooses or Jeannie Zimmermans.
And the ones that are? I probably don't want them for friends anyway.