I know you know that I personally write every single word on Priss & Vinegar. This is how I like it: Authentic. Honest. Mine. But this also means that the actual living of my real life can get in the way sometimes.
And lately, that’s been the deal. Home projects? Check. (Make that check, check, and check.) Holiday hosting? Check. Home-sick-from-school kids? Gahhhhhhh, check. Thank heavens for Instagram or search parties would surely have been dispatched to locate me by now.
We’ve also been trying to add to our family, and it’s not going the way we expected. I’ve blogged about many deeply personal things over the years, but sharing this sort of sad stuff is a line even I hesitate to cross. Many women take solace in writing about these disappointments, but mostly it just makes me uncomfortable.
Allowing myself this privacy has made it really hard to talk about anything else without feeling like an impostor. Everything I write sounds weird and posting about kids’ holiday fashion or pickling jalapeños feels suddenly more ridiculous than usual. I’m starting to run out of chipper “I’m fine!”‘s. I am not fine. Eventually I probably will be. Some days it is easier to convince myself of that than others.
I desperately want to get back to writing, and cracking the door a tiny bit on what’s been going on? Well, it helps a great deal, so thank you for that. Chin up and regularly scheduled programing about kicking ass at holiday gift giving and my latest DIY non-disasters forthcoming.