The boys and I have lived with my parents for 13 months. Thirteen months. Thirteen months more than I wanted. One month longer than I planned.
Stupid plans. Never working out like you want them to.
But starting a career in teaching is not lucrative, especially when you have a family already without an extra breadwinner. Choosing not to accept the one-sided, non-negotiable contract at a for-profit school for another year might not have been my most brilliant idea. It also turns out I have retained my horrible interviewing skills. So we’re still at my parents house, where my boys have the love and support of my parents. And I have their love and . . . support.
I have a nice bedroom. It’s tiny. I’ve been able to combine my love of beautiful things (really cool and pretty wall stickers) with humor (the bulletin boards above my “desk” filled with random stuff). The room is ultra-multipurpose and space-saving. I’ve also downsized the closet, getting rid of things that don’t fit and aren’t loved. But the books. They multiply. I would like to say at night without my knowledge, but I can’t. It’s a dangerous habit.
Since this room was my little brother’s as a teenager, my ceiling has a glow-in-the-dark dick drawing. How many mature adults can say that?
The boys all share a room, which they love because they are close to each other. 4 beds, 3 boys. Because no one will sleep in the bunk bed. It stores the extra blankets and the much loved, often forgotten stuffed animals. As you can imagine, the room often looks like 3 tornadoes ransacked it. Because they did.
I haven’t written in 13 months because I spent the first semester reading 4 years of English reading assignments so I could be a better teacher. I spent the second semester grading, writing lesson plans, and getting back to writing. I’ve written a novel, folks. I’ve returned to journal writing.
But lately I’ve been thinking of all my blogger friends. I missed them. I wondered what they were doing. Lately I’ve been editing and writing poetry, trying to refine my skills and get published as I try to secure a teaching job. I realized I missed writing in a forum to practice writing. Lately I’ve thought, “I really could use some parenting advice.”
The other day my mom looked surprised when I said I had stopped blogging. “But you love your blog.” See? She notices.
Then I got a comment from Jane, and I realized I missed blogging.
I can’t promise much. But I’ll see what I can do. I missed the place.