I could blog about how we just enjoyed our first Christmas as a family of three.
I would write about how much fun we had, how much food was enjoyed, and how Charlotte was the bomb in general.
I could blog about how a certain 1st birthday is approaching very rapidly and how it freaks me out.
I could even blog about how my neighbor wrote a book for NaNoWritMo and it features only the most magnificent people on our street including yours truly. It's important that I mention this, since it supposedly excites the neighbors to be included in my blog posts.
But I don't feel like it. I'm in a bit of a strange funk and it's hard to describe. I feel sort of selfish lately. I feel like I've been missing out on fun times, even though I'm pretty sure I haven't. For some reason, I feel a sense of nostalgia when recalling the past. It's not that I'm not satisfied with where I am (because I most certainly am), it's more that I worry that my best years may already be behind me. Today I was complaining about feeling/looking haggard while I'm pretty confident that my husband continues to get better with age. And basically, I'm feeling sorry for myself. And with a new year approaching, I tend to do my usual reflection on the year that has past...and it's the biggest jumbled blur...and I feel like I'm supposed to say it was the best year of my life and I've never had so much fun and I feel more fulfilled than I ever have <--well, that's sort of true.
But it simply wouldn't all be true. Sleep deprivation defined more than half of the year. The other half was defined by my dissatisfaction with my bulges and bumps and attempts at self improvement. I'm not sure what I should have expected with a year of motherhood under my belt, and in reality, this probably isn't too far off from my expectations. This is beginning to sound quite depressing and that's totally not my point. I'm just sharing. So stop giving me a dirty look.
Next time I promise a brighter and cheerier post. But only if I feel like it.