This is the story of the birth of the Real Mom blog.
Gestational period? Seven years. I could’ve given birth to a herd of baby elephants.
Anyway, I vowed to step outside of my comfort zone this year.
Well, I wouldn’t call it stepping outside of my comfort zone. More like a tip toe. That’s why they’re called comfort zones.
They’re comfortable. We like to be there. It’s true that not much growth happens there, but it’s a very nice place.
And I decided to leave mine to enter an uncomfortable zone as a blogger.
I’d be lying if I didn’t admit this: I’d never even heard of a blog seven years ago.
It’s no wonder. Blog is not a pretty word. My 30-something niece planted the idea in my head.
You want me to write about what? And put it where?
“Yeah,” she explained. “Haven’t you ever heard of a blog? You know. You set up a page and write about your life and what you think about stuff and people go on and read it. Blo-o-o-o-g.”
Recapping every day of my life with five little kids? Now, that sounded fun.
“Blo-o-o-o-g?” I repeated slowly, using a mirroring technique I’d learned at a marriage retreat. She saw right through me.
“I’m serious,” she said. “People do it all the time.”
“Why, why do they do it? My life isn’t exactly a soap opera. “ (Dating myself.)
“It doesn’t have to be. . . Do those still come on?” she said. “You’re a mom with five kids, you have a traveling husband, you home school, and you move all over the country,” she said. “Do you know anyone like you?”
She convinced me that I’ve got a lot to offer, so that’s it.
My evolution into blogging.
Here I am. . . uh. . . seven years later.
My kids are older.
Maybe life isn’t as physically exhausting as it used to be but it’s still demanding. I like being a mom, most days. It’s rewarding and hard and frustrating and hard and exciting and hard.
Things can be tough.
They might’ve been more manageable if I’d known what to expect.
. . . Maybe not.
But I might’ve been better prepared for some stuff.
First, I may have been better prepared to fight with ANTS (automatic negative thoughts).
The ones that keep up from being the best we can be. The ones that keep us beating ourselves down instead of building ourselves up.
The ones that start early in life and antagonize us until we call the Orkin man.
You see, I came into my marriage with tons of baggage that it would take me years to unpack.
My husband was toting his own load, too.
No one ever told me that I’d feel defeated so often or that I’d have such moments of joy.
Even if someone had told me, I wouldn’t have changed a thing.
I’ll tell you this: If you haven’t pulled out your hair and they haven’t locked you up by the time your kids are 21, you’re probably doing okay.
Consider yourself blessed. The gestational period for a baby is less than seven years.