Scaring the pants off of myself

It has been suggested more than once recently that I start a blog. Now I’m not gonna lie, I like that people say it, hell, I was a theatre kid, I can’t pretend that attention and “applause” doesn’t thrill me. But the actually doing it scares the pants off of me, and anyone that knows me knows that I only wear pants, no dresses for this “pastor’s wife”. The thing is though that a little over a year ago a dream that I had as a kid was reawakened in me.

When I was young there were three things I wanted to be when I grew up 1) a rock star that toured with either Madonna or the Monkees, 2) a teacher so that I could drink Coke in front of the kids like my teachers did to me, or 3) an author. I wanted to be one of the greats like Judy Blume, Marc Brown, or Beverley Cleary. But somehow along the way, somewhere among the dyslexia and the grades, the standardized tests and feelings of inadequacy, somewhere among the boyfriends and girl drama of adolescents and childhood I pushed my dream of being a writer into the deep dark crevices of my mind.

And so, I just lived my life. I grew up, made it through college, caught myself a man, got married, made some kids, had some jobs; life happened.  Sure there has been some messy, squishy stuff in between, and I already hate myself for using the phrase “caught myself a man” because the reader cannot read the sarcastic tone I am typing with (nothing against you Babe). But basically, to boil it down, in the deep, dark, childhood memory holding part of my brain there has always been this folder sticking out a little poking at me reminding to pick it up again one day and write damn it!

So now I have these kids that say and do funny things and on occasion I make observations about the world around me because here I am a liberal feminist stay at home wife of an almost pastor surrounded by 3 little boys and I wouldn’t change a thing. But if I could (change a thing or 2), I would like an outlet to voice my thoughts on certain matters, like say, the constant, never-ending presence of pee on the toilet seat, what the hell is that all about? But that is a topic for another day. So instead of keeping track of my misadventures on Facebook I am going to give blogging a try.  What the hell, let’s see what happens. Did I mention I like to cuss?