We used to talk all the time. I shared all the ordinary every day details of my life, and you listened patiently. I posted photos! Those were the days. And now it feels like we've drifted. I have photos, but I haven't unloaded them off of my camera. I have ideas for topics, but I've been compressing them into status updates on Facebook. More efficient. Though more ephemeral, too, gone in an instant.
It's not you, it's me. I have issues with time, and how I'm spending it. Some days I don't even get to email, and email and I were best friends long before I even considered getting to know you. When I first heard about you, I was a total snob. The term mommy blogger made me shudder. (To be perfectly honest, it still makes me wince, just a little bit). But once I got to know you, I really appreciated what you offered. I was tired and sleep-deprived, and you weren't critical. You didn't judge me if I felt the need to post photos of my baby covered in baby food, or if I needed to complain to someone--anyone--about the state of my living-room floor. (You should see the girls' room right now, by the way; I really should photograph the disaster for posterity). You accepted the mundane with the profound. It's very generous of you; though some might criticize you (and me) for shallowness, for not knowing the difference between the grocery list and poetry.
I'm not breaking up with you, please understand. In fact, my feelings are quite the opposite, full of intentions of betterment and promises to be more faithful. Every once in awhile, I feel the need to purge myself of all excesses, even the excess of keeping track of every dream, every plan, every daily chore, the minutiae of every change. But the urge is fleeting. I like keeping this stuff. Even if I never look at it again, even if it accumulates like fluff in the attic, like evidence that could be used against me in a court of consistency.
So, I'm sticking with you. And that's not just this morning's sleep-deprivation talking.