Finding the Reason

Lesson number one when I was learning to write: have a purpose. 

Who was my audience? What was the point? Why was it important? Make me care, my high school journalism teacher used to say.

I keep asking myself why I feel the need to sit down and write now. What is my purpose? Who is my audience? What is the point? Do I even want anyone to care?

I don’t know the answer to those questions.

Here is what I do know.

I am a mama of two girls. Little P is fifteen months old and Sweet S is seven. They are the center of my universe, my reason for breathing, my purpose in life. In spite of this, I still feel like I am just taking this motherhood thing day by day. I try to make my parenting decisions based in love first, above all. This doesn’t mean that I’m one of those moms that thinks my kids should do what makes them happy all the time and am super lovey dovey every second of every minute. It actually means the opposite. I love my girls so much that I want them to be able to handle both happiness and sadness and go through this life knowing that although they don’t always get what they want that they can still be happy. Making my decisions in love means I want my girls to be strong, not that I feel like they should never feel disappointed or sad.

My kids will respect themselves and others. They will BEHAVE. They will listen. They will, above all else, be KIND.

I am a strict mama. I’m no joke. It’s not easy being my kid, I am sure. Just ask Sweet S. She’ll tell you!

This is not for the new mom looking for direction or suggestions. I am not an authority on raising kids or having babies. I’m just faking it to make it every single day.

I am a wife to a wonderful man. P is one of those guys that everyone loves. He’s the nice guy, always there to help. He works hard and he works a lot. He provides for our family, takes care of our home, loves me and our girls, puts the toilet seat down, does laundry, and does it all without much complaint or asking for much from me.

He brings home two big bottles of wine at a time without judgment.

He’s the guy that my friends, when they see him with me, later tell me I’m so lucky to have because it’s so obvious that he loves me that much. It’s that crazy, irrational, I’d do anything in the whole wide world for you love.

No, I’m not just saying all of that. No, that doesn’t mean that we don’t have moments when we want to kill each other. No, that doesn’t mean he’s perfect.

But he’s close. Oh, so close.

I’m grateful for him every single second of every single day. I know I have it good. I know that people pray for this kind of love. I know that it’s not something I’m owed or that I’ve earned. I know that he is a gift.

This is not for the wife looking to help her marriage, or for advice. I have no advice. I have no suggestions for how to have a happy marriage. All I have is love and respect for the man I married and we work at it every single day.

I started writing when I was a sophomore in high school. I’d signed up for Journalism I when I moved to Bellevue, Nebraska because I was a good English student and my guidance counselor thought it might be a good place for me to make some friends. I thought he was nuts. He didn’t even know me. My fifteen year old self was convinced that no one really knew me, including that guy! I signed up anyway though.

He was right, as it turned out. I walked through the door of that classroom and breathed a sigh of relief. There, sitting on a table in the front of the room, was the very pregnant teacher who greeted me with the biggest smile and the kindest hello. She welcomed me, nurtured me from the start. She was one of those teachers who just knew what a kid needed. She taught me that my words mattered and that I could use them to tell a story, to make people listen. She taught me how to write and through that I learned how to use words to heal myself. Even when I wasn’t writing about myself or how I felt, I was writing for myself.

Over ten years later and I still, even though it’s not as frequent, write for myself.

Over ten years later and the friends I made there are still among some of my best.

So maybe I do have the answers to those questions.

Who is my audience? What is the point? Why is it important? Make me care.

It’s ME. I am the answer?

I’m writing for me. I’m writing because even though I may not know why, I feel like I NEED to right now. I don’t know what I will write about or even how often I’ll sit down and write. I like knowing that I have a place to do it, though. I have a spot in the big wide internet world that I’ve created for myself.

Yes.

It’s for ME.