I've drafted a mushy post about how awesome Miles is and then didn't put it up.
Miles is 9 months old today but I don't do those monthly letters like a lot of mommy bloggers do. Why don't I do those? The urge to gush about my perfect baby certainly strikes me, but from the beginning I've tried to angle this blog more toward being about my experiences - from my miscarriage to my quest to conceive again, to my pregnancy, to motherhood. The reason being that I assume most of my readers are here to read about things they can relate to in some way - the experience of being a woman with a reproductive cycle (fully operational or, I imagine, in some cases not so much), for starters.
It's not that I don't enjoy reading other people's love letters to their babies, because I actually do... but it's just not something I feel strongly compelled to share. I think maybe it's one corner of motherhood that I prefer to keep (mostly) private aside from the occasional mush post. I have a journal in which I write to Miles longhand, but only when the mood strikes, not wanting to force myself to pen expressions of love.
I'm not sure why I find myself out of ideas at the moment. I'm enjoying mothering more than ever. Maybe it's one of those things where you just don't feel the need to vent about things that are going well. My adolescent journals about (what else?) the torments of unrequited love went through dry periods when love was requited.
Maybe it's just a cyclical thing. I'm reading a lot, writing less. Thinking about drawing more, which almost seems like an activity that ends up being mutually exclusive to my writing habits.
Hopefully I'll be back with fresher ideas soon. My apologies.
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