When I first decided to start a blog, I had so much I wanted to write about. I had an idea for a funny post, an idea for a witty post, an idea for a thought-provoking and poignant post. I had ideas coming out my ass and I was going to be the Barbara Walters/ Connie Chung/ Oprah Winfrey of the internet blogospere; benevolent and contemplative yet racially diverse too. (Stop laughing, it could happen.) Now I find myself wanting to write but the small people are very demanding of my time. It's all, "Pay attention to me, I'm hungry, change my diaper." Or it would be if they could string together words.
Don't they see that I have a following I must attend to? That the internet needs me to surf it or it'll fade away into the nothingness that Al Gore created it from? That my friends and family would worry themselves into a tizzy if I didn't Tweet my every last narcissistic thought? (I actually don't have a Twitter account, but you get the idea.)
Truth be told, laundry, grocery shopping, cleaning, cooking, nursing, stacking blocks, reading books and marveling at the incredibly good fortune to have such an amazing family take up most of my day. And if I have a few minutes to shower, that's good too.
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