Okay, so I'm alive again and I feel ready to write and to live and to just be. It's been months since I have felt this way and I wasn't sure if I ever would again after my son's long and difficult hospitalization earlier this year. My life had temporarily ended and I wasn't sure it would ever begin again.
But it has. I'm smiley. I'm cheerful. I'm happy to have my life back.
For a long time, I didn't think I was capable of writing anymore. I didn't think it was worthy of my efforts because it wasn't as profound as the experiences we'd had in the hospital. It didn't seem that I should allow myself the joy of writing because I didn't think I deserved to be happy, to have joy, to laugh, to live for anything other than my son.
Then my son started getting stronger and healthier, and had become his cheerful, car-obsessed self. And that was a relief. And then I had another son. Having a healthy baby is a totally different experience. I don't worry when he cries. I don't fret about every sound and wonder if every moment is our last. I marvel as his body without scars and think how strange it looks--so clean, so smooth, so uniform in color, so free of pain.
It's as if I have permission to continue living. So I've taken the liberty of writing about some very un-profound things--preschool, post-pregnacy clothing. Because I can.