Blogs, wheelchair, writer.

For almost 15 years, I’ve kept this blog.  In the beginning, there were slews of other blogs to follow, many which revealed more than I reveal on this blog (though this blog does reveal a lot of stuff) and I loved, loved, loved them all.  I’m a sucker for personal, memoir, emotional stories.  Most of them were about motherhood, which was fine because I was learning to be a mother, it’s what I was interested was.  Then Facebook became a thing and then the blogs slowly died off, one by one and I was/am a lonely blogger.  All the blogs turned into “Five tips for a fabulous birthday” or “How to potty train your kid in 3 days”.  I felt like I was the last person holding a personal blog for the past 8 years.  But this week, I found them!  I FOUND THEM.  Tiny, intimate, long form blogs written by smart women – scientists, doctors, professors, mothers, wives where they comment on each other blogs in thoughtful and serious ways.  Talking about work struggles, marriage struggles, financial struggles, parenting struggles.  I’m no longer alone.  I’m not yet sure I get to reveal myself to them, I’m much less anonymous then they are, but I’ll lurk for a while and then decide.


I’m slowly getting back into the swing of things which means figuring out how to repair Edda’s old wheelchair so we’ll have a back up wheelchair.



Vince is still confusing me.  Does he know the math?  Yes.  Is he acing all his exams?  No.  It is a sign that I will never fully understand even the things I think I understand.  If you asked me, waaaaay back in 1998, when I agreed to forever link my life to my husband’s at the Caltech campus where we had met in a graduate level fluid dynamics class that neither of my future children would be able to slam dunk an algebra test in their sleep, I would have said that you were crazy.  Crazy.  It’s just how the universe fucks with you, no?  Anyways, after 8 or 12 weeks of painstakingly going over his homework nightly, I’ll just tell you that Vince is a writer.  He’s a creative writer.  Once you get past the spelling/capitalization mistakes, his stories are good.  You can tell that he’s thinking about character development, word choice, imagery, a cohesive theme.  He’s making interesting sentences, he’s thinking of plot.  He doesn’t like it though, he’s firmly in the math/science camp which I’m OK with because, you know, I’m practical.  Can you really make a living being a creative writer?  Much harder than being an engineer.  I’m gently asking him to read more fiction, but he resists.  I tell him his talent is as a writer, he’s like – I’m not going to be an author or anything – why bother?


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