Loopy

This is what happens when you get up at 4:50 a.m. By 8, you're drawing naked on the living room floor.

Terrible with Titles

Because I am a writer, I think in the written word. Or maybe I think in the written word, and therefore I am a writer. In any case, I love to write. In the last ten years, I have written: many short stories, a story long enough to be a novella, several non-fiction essays, a screenplay, three drafts of a very long, complicated and unpublished novel, and lots and lots of little things. But this is my first blog.

I've been thinking about starting a blog for a few months. Or, to put it more accurately, my thoughts have started coming in blog-like chunks. This is probably because, as I navigate the muddy waters of parenthood, I have come more and more to connect with other travelers via the Internet, and specifically blogs. And, as a writer, what I'm reading influences how I think to write. A blog entry is like a little nugget. The best are shiny gold. Some a pretty little pebble, or maybe a rock stuck in your shoe. Occasionally, one resembles the hard little nugget of poop your kiddo pops out after much effort (all mommyblogs must mention poop every five entries!). But from reflective moment to rant, all have their place in the story of a given individual.

In order to start a blog, I had to pick a name for it. I am terrible with titles. My husband gives me grief about this all the time. And it is true - either I get a title I like from the very start of an idea, or I never find one I completely love. Thankfully, I have a husband who is pretty good with titles. But he is a busy man. And I just wanted to START WRITING ALREADY. And I have learned that when you're a writer and you have that impulse, then JUST START WRITING ALREADY.

So the blog is called bubsybubs, which generally comes as two words and is one of many pet names for my son. I wanted to keep it simple and call it BBB (bubsy bubs blog), but that was already taken. So was BB. So whatever! I just picked the first thing I thought of and called it that. After all, what appeals to me about the blog is the conversational tone, the informal nature of it. If I overthink blog writing, as I am prone to do with all kinds of writing, then what's the point? Might as well call it an essay and get serious.

Adventures in Life & Motherhood is the subtitle. A bit generic, I know. But that's what I hope to chronicle here, the adventures and misadventures of being mama to a certain bubsy bubs. Except I wanted to leave it open-ended too, since I think of a blog as a kind of public journal, and my thoughts wander these days. 

So there are my terrible titles, and here's the good news: no literary critics are visiting today! 

Boy + Puddle

= Lots of Laundry.

Everytime Elan steps out the door these days, I have to strip him down before I can let him back inside. This morning, we walked to Habitot, the hands-on tot "museum" in downtown Berkeley. I opened the door, and he immediately gravitated toward the gigantic puddle that takes up residence outside our carport in every rainstorm. The puddle was inviting, mama was still loading up the stroller... Next thing I knew, he was stomping in earnest. I had one of those momentary mommy snaps, where you get instantly and unreasonably angry about some small thing. I dragged him out of the puddle. "You cannot get wet before we even leave the carport!" Of course, he was wearing his frog boots. So I was asking for it.

We walked along nicely, playing "Pooh Sticks" (a result of his current obsession with a certain short Winnie the Pooh film). Every place where an inch of water had pooled, he found a stick. "Ready, set, go!" he murmured seriously to himself, and dropped the stick in. And then, narrating the result: "Splash!"

After two blocks, we arrived at a large, deep puddle. A puddle whose siren-call was so loud even mama could hear it. He started off with sticks, then a toe in, then a shuffling foot. Soon he was shin-deep in the water, splashing and squealing with delight. I sat down on the curb. Birds chirped. The sun was on my back. A striking red-headed bird with a black-and-white striped chest danced around in a tree. Ah, the slllooowwwiiinnnnggg down of toddler time. How good it is when you can give in to it.