(Bonus points if you know the movie *hint--it's a musical* from which the subject quote was lifted.)
I really am! That is, willing, wanting, and waiting to tell you all the new and exciting news of my life. Problem is--there just isn't any. Soph is still equal parts precocious, naughty, and sweet as a bug; E is still equal parts maddening and amazing; work is still equal parts gratifying and exasperating; Utah is still equal parts crawling with Mormons and as safe and comfy as a well worn t-shirt; and I am still equal parts mother, wife, teacher, and inner-rock-star-who-is-dying-to-get-out.
What can I say? The days go by, and nothing happens that I feel is blog-worthy. It's both sad and a relief that 4 year-old Soph seems to be past the shenanigans of the last couple of years. I'm afraid there will be no more blogging about pudding art or anatomy lessons. I've said all there is to say about my struggles with weight and body image. I mean really, now many times and ways can you rephrase, "I'm fat but too lazy to do anything about it." I don't know folks. I think this blog may be going the way of the dodo.
I was kind of trying to think of some kind of formulaic approach to the blog--as I've seen others do: Monday, meme day; Tuesday, tantrum day; Wednesday, what-if? day; etc. But I just don't know.
I love my blog. I've fought battles for my blog. But I think I'm about blogged out.
This isn't a plea for comments like, "Don't quit blogging! You are totally awesome and if you quit, my pet hamster Gertrude and I will just absolutely perish!" I'm not deleting the blog or anything. Just thinking about why posting used to be a fun, daily ritual, and now it's a bit of a bi-monthly grind. If you have any ideas about how to bring back the zing, I'd much rather hear those.
So--enough meta-blog-nition. Onto the few bits of news I DO have.
Sophie has another bad hair cut. It's SHORT! Like, boy short. I had it cut at the beauty school (error 1) and it was ok, but not great. Then my mom did a little snipping here and there to try and fix things up (error 2) and I finally took her to my girl (who I go to like once a year) and the result is, well SHORT! No pics but I'll get some up soon. E hates it. I don't HATE it per say, but it's definitely short. I bought her some cute clippies and headbands--that she won't keep in, and even sprung for some $16.00 spray wax stuff (Am I the only one who thinks that calling various hair-goos "product" is kind of lame? As in, "Let's put in some product.") to--what did she say, "piece it out," which I think really means, "mess it up on top a little." I even asked her if she wanted to get her ears pierced--and she did, until the gal said, "Let me get my gun." Dur lady.
In TV news, I finally ordered Angel season one and it arrived yesterday. That lead to a much later night than I'm accustom to (11:30--jump back!) AND reopened the "Who's hotter: Angel or Spike" debate, and what a lovely debate it is. (Pause for vampy threesome fantasy. Ok. Done.) So far, I can say that it's definitely watchable. I'm kind of addicted to the watching-completed-series-on DVD thing. In my brain it feels like reading a nice long novel much more than watching the tube.
What else? Oh--I bought tickets for E and myself to the Willie Nelson and Family concert in February. I love me some Willie. I think I scored pretty decent seats, so that's something to look forward to.
Today's best thing about being a mom:
Kissing her forehead while she's sleeping
Today's worst thing about being a mom:
She has SO many questions about death lately and I just don't know how to answer them. I'm trying to be honest and age appropriate, but for some reason, she seems to be afraid that I'm going to die. I think it's from all the Disney princess movies. Think about it. Snow White? Mom's dead. Sleeping Beauty's mom? Dead. Belle's mom? Dead. They don't come out and say that Ariel and Jasmine's moms are dead, but it's implied by their absence. I can't tell her I'm never going to die, and that's what she wants me to say. I tell her I'm young and healthy and that she doesn't need to worry about it, but man does she.