One of my kids' favorite activities is sitting around looking at blog books. They laugh at what they've said and done and they remember what they would have long ago forgotten. We recently received our 6th book for 2013. Six years of their lives, of our lives, of my thoughts, their thoughts, our words and deeds and joy and sorrow and bliss and triumph and challenge and victory and gain and loss, our grief, our elation, our struggle and our rising up again, our memories are tied up within the pages of those books. To the Deutsch people, their value is beyond measure.
So when someone asserts, blogging about your every day existence and what your children are doing is so 2008. Well, gosh. I really can't help but not care. Current and relevant and interesting to the general population just doesn't matter to me all that much. Because this? What is happening in our every day reality - all of it - the ups and the downs and the sublime and the tearful and the ordinary and the memorable and the forgetable, it is the stuff life on this earth we share together is made of. It's true what they say, the little things truly are the big things. They account for the vast majority of every single portion of this, our exquisite human experience. The mountain top peaks are rare, the valleys are only visited, but the grassy hills and the meadows and the flat, golden prairies, that's where most of life is made to be experienced.
Right in the rumpled middle.
Where I have to force myself to take a beat to stop cold in my hectic tracks and slow the pace and breathe deeply and blink my lids and open my eyes and carefully see the enormous beauty in the every single day I am still, temporarily, alive. Otherwise, I might miss my very own wonderous lot as it passes me by.
Tyden on last night's date with dad and mom ~ Panda Express.
The incomparable big grandma and grandpa ~ Halloween 2014
The whole crew on what might be the last night they all trick or treat together.
Flint and Meadow on a Family Date Night in Oct.
Notes left for me to find when I returned home from a night out with girlfriends.
The night my husband grew into a paternal giant in his wife's eyes.
When he, spur of the moment, offered to sleep out in the little house with his boy who was scared.
The girl with the frilly skirt and striped knee high socks on the motor bike with her dad.
The 11 year old boy
The night we went to visit grandma JJ at her work.
The girl flanked by the poodles.
Perhaps the only hug these two have ever shared.
His 10th birthday.
The parents, that day at the penny arcade when mom's grief was raw,
but the boy's birthday was celebrated.
The baby's first day of first grade at school for homeschoolers.
That time we visited dear, old friends in their new house.
When she made rose pens out of tape with her friends for her 13th birthday.
The one and only time Meadow asked to take her mom's picture, because she had a new phone.
The year all the pumpkins we carved were homegrown.
When the siblings worked together to build a fortress.
That time they asked me to take their picture, so I did.
The day the boy turned 9.
Now, go ahead.
Tell me this isn't so, completely relevant....
1 comment:
Tisha - it's May 7, 2015 and I was remembering how beautifully you have always written so I decided to check back in on your blog that I have not visited for a long, long, time. I've now made it back in time to this post and poo poo on those folks that say blogging is so 2008. You go girl! You do it so well! Aunt Weezie (to Sandy)
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