A very wise quote from my very-quotable grandfather, who is now deceased and no longer concerned with birthdays or time or anything else.
And so, I am embracing this, my 26th birthday. Which will, no doubt (I hope), be looked back upon as a time when I was really just a child in so many ways.
I wanted to reflect back upon a few of my more memorable birthdays and have been thinking about that all day, but I've been busy with birthday stuff and am just now getting around to at at nearly 2 AM on October 19th, which is actually the day after my birthday, but whatever.
First off are my not-so-memorable birthdays... at least not memorable to me.
The day I was born. I know I was born around 5 PM... or as I was told when I was little, around the time Sesame Street comes on. Or at least that's what time it came on back then. Now it comes on at 8 AM. There's a picture of the doctor holding me upside down by my feet on that day around 5 PM. Which would bring me to the very first thing I was ever thankful for... or at least should've been... and that is the fact that he didn't drop me on my little newborn head on the very cold, very hard floor leaving me less articulate than I am anyway. It's a scary thought.
My 1st birthday. There's a video of this momentous occasion. A very long video since I was the first baby in the family for a while and, well, let's face it, I was adorable. The video consists of about 20 people saying my name simultaneously and then sticking me under my grandparents' bed. A bizarre family tradition that has rendered me emotionally unstable.
The next few years are a blur of McDonalds and skating rink parties... and one party at my sister's house at which I received a karaoke machine and to which a family member who shall remain nameless and who was going through some wild, wild west phase came dressed in Wranglers, Ropers, and a Stetson.
Fast forward to my 11th birthday, which is when I started shaving my legs and also when I got grounded for 2 weeks for following a group of older kids into the cemetery at a church function. The only other details I remember are that I somehow ended up wearing a Dallas Cowboys jacket which belonged to a boy with a slight unibrow, who I happened to be the object of my giggling at the time (the boy, not the unibrow) and there was a Boyz II Men CD in the pocket.
Thirteenth... my first "real" party to which the "big kids" were in attendance. Bonfire, hayride that ended with a flat tire on the wagon, and, at the end of the evening, a hug and a "happy birthday, birthday girl" from the drool-worthy 16-year-guy who showed up much to my shock and delight pretty much making my entire life up to that point.
Fourteenth... just a few months after being saved. Just a few weeks after my first kiss.
Seventeenth... a couple nights off work, a church camp out, a visit from a far-away, on again/off again boyfriend, being a punk, sneaking off to smoke in the woods.
Twentieth... first birthday with a new last name. Still such a baby. Still oh so self-important and almost completely ignorant of what a good man I had married. I'm still learning about that every day... and doing my darnedest to be a wife who he can say "excels them all."
Twenty-second... first birthday as a mama.
Twenty-fifth... Washington D.C., Five Guys burgers, and homemade carrot cake with friends so dear that we call them extended family.
And today (yesterday, technically)... my 26th... on the downhill slide to 30... has been an exceptionally good day. Nothing spectacularly out of the ordinary... just a sweet, good day with my family.
And what of it all?
Through all the ups and downs... all the growing and changing... the times of punkdom... the times when I've tried my best to be found doing His will... God has been there.
I've drifted away from Him too many times to count, but He has never moved... always waiting to draw me back to Him.
I can look back over my life and see His hand in all of it.
Thank God for all His mercies!
For saving my soul, first and foremost. And for saving my life over and over again.
No, I haven't completely abandoned my computer. I'm an information junkie. I could live without the internet, but the idea doesn't thrill me. I spend a lot of time busy and running around like a crazy person, but I spend a lot of time sitting with my kids while they're watching TV and stuff, too. Since I obviously am not greatly entertained by the likes of Caillou and Marvel Heroes, I usually spend that time reading and looking at stuff on the internet.
So, my break wasn't from the internet in general (although I have been spending a lot less time on ye olde computer), just from specific things on the internet.
You see, it hit me one day what I had been spending big chunks of my time on. Updating my Facebook status about what I was spending my time doing... posting pictures of my life... writing blog posts all about me. Me, me, me! Ugh.
Have you ever gotten tired of the sound of your own voice? That's sorda what happened only it wasn't my voice.. just the sound of me typing... about myself... a lot. And to be quite honest, hearing everybody else talk about themselves was getting a little old, too.
During my time "away," I gave a lot of thought to this blog and what I had been using it for in its short life. When I started this blog, I had visions of grandeur. Notoriety... even, dare I say... fame?
And so I began filling it with the stuff I knew to be the post palatable to the blogging world. Crafty stuff, kitschy stuff off of Etsy and Pinterest, trendy stuff that made it look like I might have a clue about that kind of stuff, and brief quips about the cute parts of my life. All some greatly orchestrated (and tiring, I might add) attempt to up my coolness factor.
It was a fun ride and the maybe 6 or 7 comments I got from random strangers after shameless self promotion via various blog parties/carnivals gave me kind of an ego boost... but let's face it, folks... it just wasn't real.
A dear friend of mine and I had a conversation about our respective Facebook, etc. hiatuses (hiatusi?) and one of several conclusions we reached was the conviction we felt that the Facebook selves we had been publishing just wasn't the complete truth. Sure I has been sharing little truthful tidbits of my life here and there, but the picture I was painting of myself just wasn't the whole truth. The same was true with this blog.
The truth is that I don't sew and craft with great frequency except for when, true to my obsessive tendencies, I go on freakish sewing tangents and can't make myself stop. I cook for my family, but it's rarely ever exciting enough to take pictures of. I try to keep my house in semi-decent order, but peddling advice about it isn't really my style. And most importantly, talking about my favorite products and such is the biggest joke in the world because I'm here to tell ya... I don't care at all about trends, brand names, and what everybody else is doing. And furthermore, I don't particularly care what everybody else thinks of what I'm doing.
What I discovered... or rather, what God showed me about myself is that I'm too much an introvert to be that blogger who everybody wants to read. I tried posting all that other stuff because I really wanted to post every day and I sure wasn't gonna post what was really on my mind because nobody wants to hear some random housewife go on about whatever the soapbox topic of the day is.
But the more I thought about it, the more it nagged at me. And then I happened upon this verse...
"...a fool's voice is known by multitude of words." (Ecclesiastes 5:3b)
P.S. Had I mentioned that I love the Lord? And His Word? And that He saved me when I was 13 years old? Yeah... no I had not, in fact, mentioned that here. Chastisement has been part of my sabbatical, too. Big time.
So here's the deal. I not going to quit blogging because, if for no other reason, my mom likes to read my stuff. And I think if I'm only blogging so my mom can read it, that's a good enough reason for me. She taught me how to read and write, after all. And she carried me around for 9 months and almost gave birth to me in the front seat of a Toyota Tercel. So I sort of owe her.
And I will probably from time to time blog about my OCD sewing/crafting projects, the cute parts of my life, and random stuff I find around on the interwebs. But my main goal in all of this, however frequent or infrequent it may turn out to be, is to blog about more meaningful things. And to just be real.
Because, after all, I was just Megan a long time before I thought about being The Stingy Seamripper. And it's mighty hard to act cool when you were almost born in a Toyota Tercel.
My subtle hints directed at my husband earlier tonight concerning the sad state of our trash situation prompted me to recycle this post from a previous blog of mine which I no longer maintain.
He has since remedied our trash situation, which is one more of many reasons I'm glad I married him.
P.S. I had to recycle a second post that I referenced in this one, so enjoy x2.
I've found, in all my amassed years of experience, that perhaps the most perplexing element of adulthood is taking out the trash.
Of course, pretty much every household chore is a vicious cycle of doing and undoing (e.g., bane of my existence, laundry is thy name), but there is absolutely nothing satisfying about emptying a trashcan. Clean laundry at least smells nice. Clean dishes are sparkly. A made-up bed makes a room look nicer (and we all know it bounces better).
An empty trashcan offers no reward.
Taking the trash out has never made me feel better.
And so I avoid it at all costs for as long as possible.
And here's the conclusion that I've reached about trash removal in general:
Everybody in the world hates taking the trash out. Everybody in the world believes that if they avoid it at all costs for as long as possible that their husband/wife/child/person who cleans out their home following their demise will finally take it out without being prompted to do so. Therefore, everybody in the world continues to cram garbage into the current bag until one of two things happen.
1. They have to throw away an empty milk jug and there's no way it's going to fit no matter how much they deflate, fold, contort, or melt it and are therefore forced to remove the garbage themselves.
2. The bag rips.
Situation #1 usually takes place in a huffy fit of violence since it is obviously the fault of any other adult in the house that the garbage has gotten to such a state. In most cases and with most trashcans, a bag that full is next to impossible to remove and results in sad stories like this one.
If situation #2 occurs... someone is probably going to die.
So what is the solution to this conundrum? There will always be trash. I can't afford a maid and I'm the only adult home for most of the day.
Practice "the three R's" a little bit more often?
Get a bigger trashcan?
Get multiple trashcans?
Leave when the trashcan gets full?
I'm sure practical, no-nonsense people like my grandmother and my father-in-law would tell me to just empty the darn thing before it got so full, but I have a better idea.
No. I have a plan. We'll call it "a plan."
I will ask Ye Olde Hubby very nicely to take the trash out. Then, I will cough and clear my throat loudly to get his attention as I jam trash into my full trashcan. Then, I will open the trashcan and discreetly fan the fumes toward him. As a last result, I will set the trashcan on his nightstand.
I will patiently bide my time.
And then in two or three years, my firstborn will be big enough to take the trash out and my husband and I will begin to reap the rewards of bearing offspring.
A truly joyful little nugget of parenthood second only to when he's big enough to mow the yard.
Adiós, amigos and amigo-ettes.
Please hold to a minimum any and all comments pertaining to the freakish nature of my toes and/or the fact that I could, if I wanted to, swing from or climb trees. It hurts my feelings.