If you hold a piece of gauze over your blog long enough, it will stop bleeding.
And it did. It did stop bleeding.
Even though I peeked under the gauze (once, maybe twice). After that, I applied more pressure. And even with the peeking, the blog quieted down. The words sealed at the edges, and everything became a small, red reminder that I had something to say.
And I said it.
I said it, but then I said, “Oh sure, I can do eight things at once.”
What well-intentioned, over-the-top, hyphen-loving mother can’t do more than one, two, or ten things at one time?
But something had to give.
And that give became, as I suppose all things do, a metaphor in my mind. Morphing into an analogy, a simile, a like, an as, a just, a but, an and, a hyphen.
“Always a hyphen with that one,” a memory like my grandmother might say.
She might say I take on one (or twenty) too many things. And I’d agree every evening when I set those things aside (ish) and try to parent my three heels-over-minds, giggles-over-arguments, hyphen-loving children.
They look at me with a tsk-tsk, “Mom, are you listening? Hello?”
Of course I am. I am always listening. It is the bane of the gifted mother of gifted children: the hearing of everything.
“It’s the tuning out that I’m not,” I say out loud, by accident.
I chalk up a point on the blackboard in my mind, cringing at the sound the chalk makes on the board, and then I cough at the dust. Imagination, please, not now. You really do pick the worst times!
“Mom! OMG! You are so weird,” one of the children says, I’m sure, if they know what’s normal and good for them.
And it’s true, I am weird. I am weird in all the glorious ways that they are weird.
And it’s true, they are weird. They are weird in all the glorious ways that I am weird.
“I love that about you,” I say, because no matter how many things I’m doing, that is one thing that is a must-said.
“I love that about you, too,” one, or all, of the children say.
Today is a good day.
I look at my blog. It has a little scar from where the pieces came together at one point. There is a little line, a little darker than the rest of the world, where some words have spilled out. And there is a metaphor here that my fingers itch to find, but I’m too busy. I have one (twenty) too many things on the fire, in the fire, with the fire, and on fire, and that is exactly how I like it.
“I love that you juggle fires,” I say to them at the dinner table (without explaining the whole bleeding-blog, hyphen-strewn path that led up to my saying it).
“You are so weird, mom.”
Yes, yes I am. I am very weird. And, “I love that about you, too.”