undeleted.

There was actually a lump in my throat as my cursor hovered, hesitated over the delete button.

But I clicked it anyway.

I'm done whining, seeking reassurance, waving my tiny flag hoping someone will notice.

I felt clean. Relieved. Lighter.

But then the smoke crept in around the edges: You just deleted a part of yourself, you know.

No I didn't. That's stupid. Shut up.

And I proceeded to wallow: Look at this life. What am I? A mother, yes. And that is a big deal. But what else? Not a writer. Not much. Nothing.

And then Claire, a child – like all children, without a learned filter – woke up with a blunt tongue. Saying what was on her mind in one moment.

You know your look, Mama? And your voice? They get annoying because I have to see them Monday Tuesday Wednesday Thursday Friday Saturday Sunday.

She flitted away without intending her words to stay behind, weighing me down.

Ooof.

A slow motion sock to the stomach.

Right where I had already socked myself.

Then John, home with a flower bouquet – because you had a bad day.

It wasn't bad.

But he knew. He always knows.

A discussion later, once the kid chaos quieted for the night. I didn't think you were going to actually delete it.

Well, I did.

Me tapping, shuffling cards, averting my eyes. I can't stand to talk about my feelings.

But he has these eyes, so soft and kind, that I can trust. (He gave these eyes to our children – striking.)

The blog is back up but I'm feeling a little shaky. Not sure why I'm doing what I'm doing. Not wanting to whine or fish for compliments or reassurance.
But wanting to wave my flag – tiny as it may be – because it makes me feel alive.