I haven’t been blogging much.

Nothing like stating the obvious, eh?

Everyday I sit down and open my laptop and start writing a post to publish here on RMN. And almost everyday, without fail, I scrap the post or save it to finish another day.

I haven’t been able to write what I want and I’m feeling bound and gagged like my husband tied me up with soft purple satin strips and walked away while leaving the ball-gag in so he could go get something to eat.

(Not that he’d ever do such a thing. Really.)

I could tell you I’m weighted down with grief as of late and I’m having a hard time finding my joy. But that would be lying. 

I could say I have been so busy sitting around doing nothing I haven’t had time to compose anything worthy of publishing. But one look at my daily twitter account would betray that falsehood quicker than when the kleenex I used to pad my bra in tenth grade fell out at the feet of the cutest boy in my class.

(It is a mystery why I was such a geek back then when I am the epitome of coolness now. Hmm.)

The truth behind my spotty posting as of late is more complicated than the gossamer weavings of a spider’s web tucked up high in the corner of your ceiling. 

I’m pissed off. 

Okay, so it really isn’t that complicated. I’m mad as hell and I’m tired of muzzling myself. I’m tired of not being able to sit down and compose a post about what happens when you grab your husband’s package while on a six-hour road trip only to hit a pothole. Hint: eyes bulge out and expletives may be uttered.

I made a promise to myself when I started blogging I would focus on the funny. If it didn’t bring joy or wasn’t about remembering how to find joy, I wouldn’t write about it. My life has enough drama filled moments I don’t need to fill my time trying to recapture them.

For the most part, I’ve held true to this promise with few exceptions. I’ve never felt stifled by that decision. Until now. Now I feel as though there are things I need to get off my chest so I can resume my routine of focusing on exaggerating and twisting my daily life for the sheer pleasure of knowing my husband will read this and wish he had remembered to wear a rubber one fateful night long ago, thereby escaping a shotgun wedding and an eternity tethered to me.

So I’m going to stray off the beaten path and do what I never do. I’m going to dump all my pissiness at your proverbial feet in hopes you’ll understand why the bee has been trapped in my bonnet as of late.

Deep breath. (Stay with me peoples. It’ll be quick and painless. Like having sex while intoxicated.) 

I’m pissed with the adoption process my husband and I have been traveling for almost two years now. I’m tired of running along side him in this hamster wheel of bureaucracy and being bound by legalities (and a healthy fear of retribution) to not speak about it.

One day, though, this path will end. I will climb the highest mountain and shout my story for sherpas and villagers everywhere to hear. Or I’ll just open my laptop and press publish. That day cannot come soon enough for me.

Bureaucracy can suck my big hairy toe.

I’m pissed with the anonymous trolls who have nothing better to do in their lives than to mock my parenting, my dead child and me. I won’t lie and say it hasn’t destroyed a bit of the joy I have found in the community of the blogosphere. I prefer my naive belief that as adults we can all agree to disagree and if you have nothing nice to say keep your big fat yap shut.

I have walked through the shadows of hell, holding my children’s hands tightly within mine, to ensure we all survived our unthinkable tragedy as unscathed as possible.

It wasn’t easy and it wasn’t fun. For any of us. For people to diminish my loss and the loss of my children pisses me off.

I don’t write about my son, Shale, for entertainment. I certainly don’t write a post about him to earn money off the revenue I make running ads in my sidebar. I write about my son to help remember him, to preserve the memory of his tiny chubby hands laced with calluses and covered in drool, or his curly blonde hair always sweaty from exertion or how he’d throw his head back and laugh when he did something he deemed extraordinarily funny.

I write about my son so my children will one day understand why I am the person I am today. How his life and his death so deeply impacted my very being and how I struggle to stay aloft the despair that threatens to pull me under every day I live, knowing I will never watch my youngest son grow to be a man. 

I post ads on my site to create revenue so that I can donate money in his name to the Stollery Children’s Hospital. I wanted to be able to do something personally, to show my gratitude to the hospital that fought so hard to keep my son alive for as long as he was. Every damn cent I earn off my words goes straight charity. 

I’m pissed off that my new puppy eats more scat than puppy chow and insists on kissing my face with her shitty breath. And I’m pissed off I’m dumb enough to coo over her and let it happen. Repeatedly.

I’m pissed off I am a damn klutz and am now paying the price for attempting to clean my house. This is just further proof no good can come from household chores.  My twisted knee and myself are proof of this.

I’m pissed my son is eleven years old and still has to be reminded to clip his own damn toenails. Those suckers are like sharp little crack nails and he doesn’t even seem to notice.

Hell, I’m pissed my left boob is noticeably bigger than my right one. I feel lopsided and uneven. I know I’m not alone in this. Women everywhere have uneven boobs. But why don’t guys have unevenly sized testicles? What’s the deal with that? And why don’t bra manufacturers make bras with different shaped cups so one boob isn’t squished and spilling out while the other cup is almost so empty you are eyeballing a box of kleenex like you did in junior high.

But mostly I’m pissed off that people just don’t get it.

Life is short. There is no such thing as tomorrow. Tomorrow is a promise not always kept. I speak from experience. Why do people waste any second of the spun gold known as time as though it’s a renewable resource?

I want to teach my children to focus on finding joy and learning to be amazed with whatever path they choose to travel. To always aspire to be better not bitter.

That’s why I blog. I just needed to remind myself of this and expectorate the pissiness.

Like a cat after coughing up a hairball, I feel much better.

Care to share? Purge your pissiness. You’ll feel better. I promise.