15 Marbles

When I started blogging 20 years ago, I was pregnant, lonely in a brand-new city, in a foreign country, and I had so many thoughts to share. About my life, my day, my soon-to-be-born baby.

My husband, SP, was – and still is – a workaholic, and that left me alone in the house with my thoughts. I was a stay-at-home wife while my people were either in a different time zone or at a more exciting stage of their lives.

So, I took to blogging. More as journaling, really.

I kept writing. About the baby, then the toddler, everyday angst and encounters. The baby became a big sister, and then I had a new baby. Suddenly I had the girls’ antics and their bond to write about, along with my recipes and crafts.

Slowly, social media and sharing photos took over.

Pictures. Short or long captions. Instant posting and instant gratification. What’s not to like?

At the same time, I was busy raising little kids, had a travelling spouse and a full-time job.

My mind became an ever-growing checklist of things to be done. Everyone’s schedules, appointments, activities.

All of that left very little brain space for me. For the things I enjoyed – crafting, reading and writing.

As any busy mum or parent would appreciate, I would wait for them to fall asleep so I could doomscroll or binge-watch until far too late at night, then wake up tired and rinse and repeat the cycle.

The said kids are teenagers now. The spouse is no longer travelling, and life is a little more mundane compared with the last decade or two.

Of course, anyone with teenagers will know that while they give you stories to hold close in your heart, they are not yours to share.

And if you’re lucky enough to get a cute photo with the said teens (insert eye rolls), you most likely won’t have permission to share that either.

I have always said, to whoever would care to listen, that I strongly believe my purpose in life was to be a mother. A mother to my two beautiful girls.

They are my reason for so much of what I do. They were the purpose behind my cooking and crafting, my muse for the blog and my social media posts.

And not having that material to share anymore suddenly had me at a loss.

Now, with more time on my hands, I am rediscovering myself and my passions outside of the two who walk on two legs and can break and/or heal my heart in a heartbeat.

So, I am writing and publishing more.

I’m reading every chance I get.

I’m cooking things I (and SP) enjoy, because the kids are old enough to fix their own meals if they don’t want what we’re eating.

I’m going for walks. Seeing friends when I want to, because nobody’s bedtime is being impacted.

Most weekends, they tuck me in and keep doing whatever they’re doing – cooking at midnight (yes! I know), playing video games, binge-watching shows… you know, regular teenager stuff.

Don’t get me wrong – I still enjoy them. Their company, their conversations, and doing things with them. Little coffee dates, walks, family time, 10 pm chats, listening to their music, arguing about things that make sense to them and not to me, and vice versa. Getting their tick of approval when I cook something, or a random text asking me to cook or order something.

Anyway, I digress.

What I was trying to say is that for the last two decades, somewhere along the way, I started believing I could only have interesting stories, photos and thoughts to share because I was a mum.

At the ripe old age of 46, I’ve realised something.

I still have plenty to write about.

Because I am me.

And I have my words.