Cookies

Cookie (noun) - a sweet biscuit.

It's just cookies. 

My son was pulling at my leg, trying to get me to hang up yet another ornament on the tree. To say he was excited to help make the tree pretty, would be an understatement. His dad, in anticipation of an upcoming business trip, was out trying to find replacement wiper blades, and I was a baking disaster. I'm not a great baker, but I normally get by. Not this time. 

My cookies were crumbling messes topped in chocolate and marshmallows. Sounds delicious, right? I wouldn't know, because they fell apart before I could pick them up. It was kind of reminding me of one of those photo galleries of failed Pinterest pursuits. The world would have cringed at the mushy disaster, had I taken photos.

The timing couldn't have been worse, because I had a cookie exchange in a little over an hour and a half. For a good baker, that's plenty of time. For me? I might be able to wing it, but just barely. Not to mention the fact that I was out of butter... and who wants cookies without butter? Not this guy. 

So what do I do? I start to get annoyed. It's a pretty typical reaction for me to start to guilt trip myself over not living up to the expectations of other people. I'm the girl that was always 15 minutes early, and rarely cancelled plans. But then life happened. I got married, and had this wonderful relationship that needs constant love and attention to make it work. Then I had a baby. A little boy that would probably find a way onto the roof, if I didn't always have an eye on him. A little boy that does some pretty amazing things when you least expect it... like telling the christmas tree to look at the sparkly sticker stuck to his forehead. 

I think I was in the middle of mumbling to myself about how I was never going to make these stupid cookies work, when my little guy came up and thrust another decoration into my hand. I looked down at him, and realized how incredibly cool it was that this little person was so excited about something that I took for granted every year. Here was this incredible, hulking tree in the middle of his house, and all he wanted to do was decorate it. I had to ask myself right then and there why my priority was on making a social engagement, over spending some magical time with my son. That's when I stepped away from the madness in the kitchen. 

They're just cookies. 

The cookie exchange was there for my social needs. A chance to interact with other moms that could relate to the temper tantrums and struggles with potty training. Somewhere to seek solace with some "me" time, and while I regret not being able to join the fun, walking away from the kitchen to engage my son in the magic of Christmas was such a positive thing for me. I was able to take a look at the bigger picture, and see what was truly important in that moment. 

The guilt from not meeting expectations (whether real or imagined), is not worth missing the important stuff. And if it's not important stuff... it's just cookies. 

Journaling

"This sentence has five words. Here are five more words. Five-word sentences are fine. But several together become monotonous. Listen to what is happening. The writing is getting boring. The sound of it drones. It’s like a stuck record. The ear demands some variety. Now listen. I vary the sentence length, and I create music. Music. The writing sings. It has a pleasant rhythm, a lilt, a harmony. I use short sentences. And I use sentences of medium length. And sometimes, when I am certain the reader is rested, I will engage him with a sentence of considerable length, a sentence that burns with energy and builds with all the impetus of a crescendo, the roll of the drums, the crash of the cymbals–sounds that say listen to this, it is important." - Gary Provost

I like the idea of making music from writing a story, but is it that simple? Can I tell an amazing story that makes people want to shout "Hurray! This is music to my eyeballs!", by varying the length of my sentences a little? It seems to me that Gary Provost is a bit of a professional who has taken it upon himself to dumb down the art of writing, so any slacker (such as myself) can feel destined to success? It's like a professional hockey player telling a 30 year old man that he too can go pro by practicing every night. I'm not saying it's impossible, just a little improbable, and maybe a heap of impractical.

Am I a cynic? Maybe.

The truth is I've forgotten so many grammatical rules in my 30 odd years on this earth. I won't even go into the sloppy mess that has become my writing, since I stopped flexing those muscles long ago. Shoulda, woulda, coulda. I shoulda practiced writing more when I was younger. But I didn't. I was a bit of an idiot, and while I regret being a bit of an idiot, at least I had some fun times!

So, I've decided to start a journal. I'm not going to waste your time detailing what I did at the grocery store today, or how often I had to clean up little accidents. I'm going to try chronicling my life in a way that is fun and relatable to my friends and family.

Any advice is greatly appreciated. Oh, and maybe a writing class, huh?!