I haven't written in a very long while.
Mostly, it's been lack of time - or not prioritizing the blog, I guess.
But some of it has been that the things that eat at me, the things that I want to write about suddenly seem very personal. Not to me, really. But to the other people in my life.
I want to write about how the mean girls at school affect my daughter's psyche. How what happens at school day in and day out affects our relationship. How I worry that my Marcie will get sucked into the meanness. I want to write about how she copes (or doesn't) with the difficulties of being an 8-year-old girl.
But I don't - because it would reveal so much about her. About my relationship with her. And I worry that - because my blog is not anonymous - it's too personal to her to share.
This is mildly ironic, too, because the joke in our home is that I always make everything about me. (Maybe it's not a joke?) And here I am, worrying about her.
So, generically, here's what's been eating at me: When did it get so hard to be eight? Eight should be about riding bikes and playing with dolls. Eight should be about sleepovers with pillow fights and putting on play-make-up. Eight should be about being on a sports team and not caring if you're the best because you're having so much fun. But it doesn't seem to be that way anymore. Now eight seems to be about being smart enough - but not too smart. It seems to be about dressing in the right clothes. Now eight seems to be about who gets invited to which sleepover - and who doesn't. Now eight seems to be about who is the best, the prettiest (but not the smartest). When did this happen? And why?
Oh, I've got other worries, too. But this one - it keeps me awake. It makes me ache for days gone by. Eight-year-old relationships just shouldn't be so complicated.