There’s nothing wrong with being shallow as long as you’re insightful about it.

Dennis Miller

You know what? I think I agree with this. We can’t possibly be deep all the time. Nor would we want to be. I think we should embrace the shallow waters of our world, splash around in them a little. And maybe, just maybe, there are some insights in those waters. I plan to do this here. To write some more silly, superficial, shallow posts. But I do promise that I will try my very best to imbue these lighter leanings with some thought, some depth.

Deal or no deal?

What does it mean to be shallow? Do you think it is even possible to be insightful about being shallow? Anyone else indulging in this season of The Bachelor? Thoughts on the first episode (the grandmother appearance, the horse entrance, the, um, “eccentric” NYC blogger)?

This will be short. And maybe a bit scattered. Because I am not home. I am in South Carolina with family. And I have been up since 4:45am. It seems Little Girl is dealing with an ear infection, or is majorly teething, or is going through a growth spurt, or something. So I am beginning this brand new year in typical fashion: utterly wiped.

But I am also feeling very positive about 2012. Yesterday, the first day of the year, was really quite magical. It was Big Girl’s fifth birthday. The weather was glorious and my girls were happy and, well, it was indeed a wonderful way to kick off the year. I took oodles of pictures with my new camera (my Christmas gift from Husband) and look forward to sharing many of them here. And, as promised, I will pony up a birthday letter for my eldest gal. I have so much to say to her, and to myself frankly, five years into this parenting thing.

So today. Today I just wanted to pop by and say hello. I wanted to tell you that I have been thinking a lot about what I want from this year. I have also been thinking about what I want this blog to look like, and feel like, going forward. And I thought I would share some of these thoughts with you.

This year, I want to be productive and purposeful in my productivity. I want to write books. Yes, plural. I know I can do this and I am going to stop making excuses about time and exhaustion and the plethora of babies that have come to rule my existence. I am going to write and edit and polish and submit and write some more because this is something I love and I will not put this part of me on hold because my current life is chaotic and complicated.

This year, I want to be more flexible and forgiving. I want to embrace the juggling act that is my existence with a sense of reasonableness… As long as I am writing words and spending quality time with my girls and my man and my friends… As long as I am reading good books and good blogs… As long as I am feeling life and laughter and love… As long as I am learning… I will know that I am indeed doing okay. Better than okay.

This year, I want this blog to reflect the three things that matter most to me, topically speaking. Life. Love. Learning.

Life. Philosophically speaking. Biologically speaking. This is what rivets me. How we choose to live. How we find health and happiness in our own lives. How we react to the ripple of our days.

Love. Parental love. Marital love. Love for friends, for work, for words. Love for stories, for places, for memories, for questions… Isn’t love something we are all after?

Learning. Learning in school. Learning beyond school. Are we truly growing if we are not continuing to learn? And who are our teachers? Our colleagues, our kids, our struggles, our juggles. An academic and existential romantic, I hope this is a year of profound learning, personally and professionally.

Okay, signing off to soak up my last day at a fine family place. I smell bacon. And the girls are all awake now, PJ-clad, hair exquisitely mussed, beckoning. And my coffee? It’s gone. Again. And I am off for a refill. And another good morning.

Do you have any thoughts on 2012? Nothing is too random, too big or too small. (One of my sisters told me she wants to start taking vitamins this year and also that she wants to “figure out her life.”) How do you hope your blog (or life) evolves this year? Do you think it is possible to be both highly productive and genuinely self-forgiving at the same time?

Am I alone? I am trying to fight it, but I’m not sure why. What is it that I’m trying to fight? The urge to step back, shrink inward, to regain a core of privacy, to put the computer away (when I am not writing my book). The compelling instinct to give social media the cold shoulder.

Blasphemy, I know.

Or is it? I don’t know. I’ve been at this for almost three years. This blogging, Facebooking, Tweeting, spending a good chunk of my daily time online thing. But before that what did I do? Is it weird that I don’t fully remember? It’s like trying to remember life before Email or the Cell Phone.

Strange. Impossible. What?

Here’s the thing. I don’t know whether I am experiencing a typical phase of social media burnout/introspection or whether this is something more significant. It could be that my body and mind just want a bit of R&R after going so strong for so long. OR. It could be something more meaningful than that.

I am writing about this because I get the sense that I am far from alone in feeling these things. I know many fellow authors and mothers and bloggers have expressed a similar sentiment about social media.

The interesting thing? Recently, I have been quite good about tending to my “real world” relationships. I have been good about seeing friends, and supporting them, and letting them support me. I have hosted and attended a slew of brilliant play dates and just threw a genuinely fun and festive holiday party for friends and family. I have been having a gorgeous time with my girls, indulging in quiet moments, legendary silliness (involving junk mail treasures and magic sugar packets), and in evening Christmas carol dance parties. I have been having wonderful conversations with my man.

I wonder sometimes if it is not truly possible to immerse ourselves well, and richly, in online and offline worlds at the very same time? But maybe this is a cop-out, an excuse. Maybe I am just changing, or tired, or something.

After publishing my post yesterday wherein I mentioned my recent growing unease with blogging, a friend and ILI loyal wrote me an email. She pointed something out that may or may not be true. She said that my blogging has gotten a lot more personal lately. She noted that since Little Girl was born, I have written almost exclusively about myself, or my girls, or my family. She mentioned that I used to ponder a broader spectrum of topics, and questions, many of which were not truly about me. She said she liked reading these older posts.

For some reason, this email made me wince. Maybe because it was true. Maybe because I have been very intentional about getting more personal here, about excavating important existential soil. Since welcoming my third child, my life has gotten more complicated and I have relished the opportunity to sift through the complications here, to consider what it means to be me these days. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that this is perhaps just why I blog. To generate thoughtful comments from those whom I respect. And this email was nothing, if thoughtful.

Maybe my reluctance in this world has to do with this, the fact that I have felt unnecessarily compelled of late to reveal bits and pieces of self and soul here. Maybe I should go back to pondering the serious and silly questions about life, but not necessarily my life? It is worth thinking about. Because I love this place. This world. And as much as I hem and haw and threaten, there will be no cold shoulders given. At least not yet.

Thoughts? Anyone else feeling anti-social when it comes to social media? What do you think this is all about? Do you agree that my blogging has gotten excessively personal? In general, do you prefer personal or impersonal blog posts, or some combination thereof?

Yes. I did. And I’m woman enough to admit it. (Are you?)

Here’s the setup: I was home. Husband was out at his company holiday party to which I, ahem, was not invited. (Stay tuned for future post on this one.) My face was swollen and beautifully black and blue from an intense bout of gum surgery. The girls were sleeping. I was bored. Not yet ready to call it a night. And so. I went – where else? To Facebook. I saw an update from an old college friend. The update was about how her little girl was in the hospital over the Thanksgiving holiday. Of course I was interested. I clicked on through. And suddenly I was glimpsing this family’s world. Their struggles. Their strengths. Their sweet little kids. And then, suddenly, I was looking at pictures from their twins’ recent birthday party. And there was a picture of another guy I knew in college. A nice guy. A guy I always liked. And it took me a while to think of it this way, but soon enough I did: These were my ex’s friends. Sure, they were my friends too, but they came by way of him and his team and his connections. So of course I was suddenly thinking about him. Wondering where he is.

And so. I looked him up on Facebook. And I was bizarrely relieved to see that he wasn’t there (or that I couldn’t find him). But then I took this one step further: I Googled him. And suddenly I was face to face with his Linked In profile. It was him. It was his resume. It seems that he has been up to wonderful things professionally, and he appears to be quite successful. I’m happy to know this. Even though I have not seen this guy or spoken to him in a very long time, he was an important character in my story and I genuinely hope he is well and happy.

That’s it. Hardly a salacious little story. But I felt a bit weird after this. When Husband came home from his party, I promptly confessed that I Googled The Ex. I told him what I learned. He smiled. A sweet smile. A smiled that said: So what? You’re silly.

Have you ever Googled your exes? Come on, be honest. Funny stories? Share ‘em. Do you find Facebook and its brethren Internet technologies to be at once amazing and alarming?

**As I mentioned yesterday, I am trying to make a genuine effort to plug back in here, to achieve that old school Aidan interactiveness or some approximation thereof. So leave a comment and I will come find you or respond. And, again, I am looking for ideas for additions to my upcoming edited blogroll.**

It wasn’t our best morning. The girls were tricky. There were tears. They didn’t want to eat breakfast. Big Girl said her bacon wouldn’t swallow. Little Girl must be getting a third tooth because she was a weepy mess. Middle Girl threw a tantrum about her Dora umbrella, bringing her big sister to tears. More. And you and I raced by each other, tending to the chaos we have created. I picked clothes, you made lunch, we packed bags. At the end of it all, we made it out the door. Another day begun.

I didn’t have a chance to pull you aside. To look into your eyes, big and blue and bequeathed to our marvelous and maddening girls, and say it, We met ten years ago. Because, yes, this is the day. December sixth.

I remember bits and pieces of that day. I was in my second year of law school. Exams were approaching. The weather was doing its trademark dance between balmy and blustery. My girls and I decided that we would have one last night out, one night of wine and abandon, before buckling down and learning the law. I remember what I wore. All black. Black pants and a black sweater. I also wore a black belt with big white stars. It was a good night. A night full of friendship and laughter and life. We traveled in our little pack from bar to bar along Columbus. Under twinkling lights. Along cracked sidewalks. And it got late. And we almost called it a night. But we didn’t. We decided to go for one last glass.

Prohibition. We walked in and it was dark, quite empty. There were two guys standing by a pillar. One guy was very cute. That guy was you.

And we ordered more wine. Wine we didn’t need. And suddenly you were there, by my side, talking to me. It’s a funny story how you made your way to me, a story I’ve told many times, a story I cherish more than most. But what matters is that you were suddenly there, inches from me. We talked about school and soccer and the big city. We talked about September 11th because I had been here on that day, and you had just moved here after that day. We talked and talked and talked. It turned out that the night was in fact just beginning.

So was a life. Our life.

Babe, I think about that day often. That day in December ten years ago. I think about it because it seemed so accidental, such a product of chance. What if I had gone home to bed? What if I had woken up the next day and continued on as things were? What if?

I remember more than you know, I imagine. I remember the late night delivery of flowers and Mountain Dew. I remember that necklace you gave me on Christmas, mere weeks after we met. I remember eating omelets at Shining Star and telling you how much I loved your eyes. Those eyes our girls now have. Our three girls.

A decade later. We are here. In this good, and beautiful, and hard time of our life together. Our kids are young and we are tired, but I don’t think I’ve ever felt this full, this happy. And I want you to know that. That despite the insanity of it all, this is downright exquisite. This life we have created. This complicated and compelling and koo-koo life. And to think it all started with booze and banter and the locking of blue eyes in a bar.

Just so you know, the morning continued on its course. In the taxi, Big Girl pointed to my coffee and asked why there was a three on it. And I told her it was because I have three girls. She smiled. Of course, it was because I need three shots of espresso to deal with my life. So, if you only had two girls then it would have a two on your cup? she asked, suspicious. And I went with it, indulging in this silly parental lie told for purposes of survival. And I wondered if we would arrive at the logical conclusion that childless people drink decaf, but then. Somehow, I managed to pour the entire thing onto my lap. Caffeine doesn’t quite have the same effect when absorbed through jeans.

So now. I am here at another Starbucks. With my refill. Surviving. Smiling. Thinking of you, and this. This life. This love. This day.

Ten years, babe. Can you believe it?

If we had a sitter tonight, I’d drag you back to Prohibition. But we don’t. And so. I will kick the toys aside, and curl up next to you on our cat-tattered couch and we will watch something on television. That sounds pretty good, too.

I love you. I’m so thankful I had my eyes, and heart open, that you were there. And that we are here.

How did you meet the person you love? Do you believe in fate or happy accidents? Do you think parenting small kids sometimes (or often, or always) interferes with proper articulation of affection? What were you up to a decade ago?

**I know I have been absolutely terrible about interacting here, but please comment and I will come visit you, or respond if you don’t have a blog of your own. I am also planning to edit my blog roll in the weeks to come, so am looking for new blogs and to be reminded of oldies I love. I’m getting back in the groove here, kids. Or trying to!**