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It's been three weeks since the littlest Rowley arrived and I am feeling more and more like myself again. This is good. Very good. My energy is returning, my ideas are gaining momentum once more, and I am seeing things more clearly.

Thank goodness.

Over the weekend, when I was not feeding or chasing or changing teensy diapers, I was thinking. About many things, but about one thing in particular: blogging. And because this is my blog, this is obviously an appropriate place to examine said thoughts.

Should I be blogging?

Not an easy question. Part of me thinks that even though I am emerging from the twilight zone that is the first weeks of motherhood, I should refrain from regular posting. Why?

Because. Every moment I spend here tapping away on the keyboard is a moment that I am not spending staring at that tiny chest rise and fall under the little bow and polka-dots of that onesie that will only fit for so long, a moment when I am not playing games and drawing pictures with my big girls, a moment when I am not hacking away at my second novel, a moment I am not talking with Husband about life and Life, a moment I am not snagging the rest I so desperately need. Every moment I spend here is one I will not get back. This dilemma? It's nothing new. I have long fretted about the manner in which I spend my time, about striking some breed of balance between my family self and my self self.

But there's something else.  A new concern. One that's a bit harder to articulate. But I will try. I am worried that blogging does not only pull me from my life as far as time is concerned, but that it actually affects my life, how I live it, and see it. Last week is a good example. I posted twice about Dad's birthday, about my sadness and sorrow and ache. I did this because it was relevant and real and I try to be both of those things here: relevant and real.

But then? Then I worried about appearances, how I might seem, or come across, to all of you. I worried, yet again, about what you think. I worried that I might have conveyed too much grayness for one week, that people might be concerned that I am not okay, that I am really struggling and down. And the truth? The truth is that I am fine, better than fine. Yes, life is busy and full and complicated at the moment. But I am doing well, feeling good and lucky for the bounty that is my Now.

The important thing is that I am okay and feeling good, right? It shouldn't matter what my blog readers deduce from a blog post or two, right? Right.

But.

It's never this simple. I hadn't planned to post last Friday morning. I planned to have a lazy morning with my girls and Sister N who was visiting from Chicago with her daughter Cousin C. But suddenly I felt compelled to blog. To whip up a post about the Rowley rainbow, the happiness and humility I feel now, the joy of being immersed in a wonderful world of little girls. I love that post. It's maybe one of my favorites.

But.

Why did I write it, that Friday post? Did I write it because I was simply moved to do so, because I wanted to remember this fleeting moment of fierce family love? Maybe. Or did I write it to convince you - and maybe myself - that despite some gloomy moments over the past week or so, I am indeed alright, far better than alright? Hmmm...

So. I am here. Today. Wondering about something. Something important, I think. Does blogging detract from being? By concerning ourselves with communicating how we are doing, are we not allowing ourselves to simply live, to simply be?

I ask this, these questions, because if ever there is a time for me to just be, to soak up the moments, to ride life as it ripples, this is it.

So. I am here. Today. Wondering about something. Something important, I know. Does blogging perhaps enhance being? By concerning ourselves with communicating how we are doing, and the magic and muddiness of our moments, are we in fact more deeply revering these moments and inking them more indelibly in our minds?

I ask this, these questions, because if ever there is a time for me to celebrate and consecrate and memorize my moments, my magic, my muddiness, it is now, during this passing and priceless time, this time that will soon grow blurry and vague. I want to remember this.

Alas. Instead of pondering these questions, these big questions, in my own head and in my own world, here I am blogging about them. Am I lost cause?

Once we become bloggers, can we ever go back to just being?

Maybe not.

(Is this alarming? Or is this perhaps amazing?)

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Do you think that recording moments for the masses detracts from those moments? Do you think bloggers - consciously or unconsciously - write certain things so as to portray their lives in certain ways, to convince readers of certain things? Do you think that blogging detracts from, or enhances, being? Once a blogger, can we ever go back to being just a be-er?

Never Stop Dreaming

Real Life & Rowley Girls