A few years ago I ate a bowl of taco soup at a church Halloween party. Later that night as I lay in bed trying to sleep I felt the familiar rumbly tumbly that only means one thing. Puke.
I hate throwing up. Puke. Barf. Whatever you call it. I hate it. I'm scared of how horrible it's going to feel coming out. I'm beyond grossed out that I have to kneel on the cold bathroom tile leaning over the germy toilet to feel better. The whole thing makes me sad (I usually cry and do a good deal of freaking out) and scared and I really hate it.
I'm glad I only ever had one day of morning sickness. Twice with child and only one day of puking. And that's the day I knew for sure that Cate was a girl. (Since I wasn't sick with Danny and this was something different so I was sure she was a girl and whaddayaknow? She's a girl. Bam. I'm good.) And yes, Dan, I'm sure it was morning sickness. I know the difference between ouch, my tummy hurts because i'm hungry and ouch, my tummy hurts because i need to puke. I can also feel the difference between ug, i'm puking because i have the flu and ug, i'm puking because i'm pregnant with a baby girl!
Back to the taco soup.
I puked. It wasn't pleasant. But the good part of it all is that I felt so much better when it was done. My body needed it gone and once it was, relief.
So here's where I'm going with all this.
I had a birthday in June. I'm 39. So obviously I'll be 40 when summer rolls around again. I'm looking forward to it. The thirties have not been kind to me. Or more likely, I haven't been kind to myself. Honestly, it's all about me anyway right? I've been sad for a lot of my 30's. Sad. Worried. Lonely and why can't anyone just leave me alone! all at the same time. Overwhelmed. Underwhelmed. Struggling. Sure, I've had happy stuff. Duh. Both of my babies were born in my 30's. That was awesome. But I don't think I've been my best me for a good decade. Yuck. What a waste.
So here goes nothing. I'm going to just puke out the stuff that needs to get out so I can start 40 with some much needed relief. Just count me as another blogger who uses her blog as therapy. Whatever. I'm usually quite nervous to write about feelings because if I do then you'll know I have feelings! The horror. Then I got to thinking. Who is even reading this anyway? Mom? Dad? Dan? Wanda? Maybe one or two more. That's pretty much it. What better time to puke it all out than when nobody is looking (or reading in this case).
I'm not promising any deep, dark secrets because I don't have many of those. Just stuff. I like this silly blog. It makes me crazy sometimes. It haunts me. Do something! Write something! Take a picture! Bake something and tell your mom and dad how many cups of flour are in those dang cookies! Would it kill you to share your feelings?! Love something! Appreciate something!
I'm not trying to be a writer. I think there's enough of those. I'm not looking for a book deal. Gag. I'm not trying to inspire. Puh-leeeeeze. I'm not begging for your comments of love and support and friendship. (I used to be upset with Dan for not commenting on my blog posts. Now I don't even want him to talk about them when I'm in the room. I'm such a weirdo.) I'm just saying it's a new year and here's my attempt at making it better than the last 9. How's that?
As my grandma used to say, "Lump it or leave it."
To those of you who googled "taco soup" and landed here, sorry. I will never in my life eat that stuff again. You're on your own.
And to my regulars (besides Mom, Dad, Dan and Wanda), thanks. You know who you are, I know who you are and I know you like my cookie recipes. There's no denying it.