Start All Over Again

Right.  This is ridiculous.  I actually have No Inspiration to Blog.  All the things that I want to write about seem to be really rather dull for a person (you) to read.  And anything slightly less dull is really rather too much of a hassle to get down on paper.  Or screen.  Or whatever.
And so it has happened.
Finally.
I have, it seems, forgotten why it was that I started to blog.
And because I have forgotten why I started to blog, I have forgotten what to write about.
Which is plain silly.
Because the reason I started to blog, in October 2008,  was to write down the lovely, memorable things that happen over the years, so that I will have a diary to look back on one day, when these dear children of mine are grown up.  And gone.
I need to be able to look back, and marvel, and giggle, and cry...and remember.
And I have forgotten all that in the need for approval.  Comments.  Feedback.
?????
That maddening feeling that what I really want to write is just a little boring.  Dull.  Repetitive.  Samey. Blah blah blah.  That someone is judging what I am writing.  That I am reading the comments before the post is even written. Crazy.
And so I am going to stop doing that.
And write.
Write about dear little Youngest  and the things he says.  Things that make me smile and giggle and laugh out loud.  Write about Daughter and her wonderfully quirky ways and generous heart.  Write about Middle Son and his way of making me laugh until I hurt.  Write about Eldest and how he warms my heart and my life.  Write about Husband.  How he makes my life whole.  Write about Stuff that happens to ME and not worry about who comments and when and why.
Doesn't matter.
What matters is that I get to log my memories.
I am now writing this for myself.
I really don't care who reads it, when, why, who comments, who doesn't.
I need these memories written, and the only person who can do that is me.
You see, along with the endless poo stories or inconsequential nonsense about ponds or carpet shops, I have the most appalling 'on the quiet' sentimental side.  I cry at the slightest thing on the telly, and can quite often be seen sobbing.  Marley and Me (sobbed so hard my head hurt) or the World Cup (cry when they sing the National Anthem).
My children think I am mad and my husband loves me for it.
And sometimes that sentimentality spills out here on my blog.
And I know which of you will find that sweet. And I know which ones of you will find that irritating. So I don't do it.
Well, buggery bollocks,  am going to do it now!
Sentiment, unashamedly so, will SPILL from the screen, slopping all over your keyboard.
Really pathetic moments that I need to record.
Am going to write whatever I want because Ladybird World Mother is MINE! ALL MINE!
Cue mad laughter.
Yes, I know that you all do this anyway, and are reading in total astonishment that I am even THINKING such thoughts.  That I actually give a monkey's bollocks what anyone else thinks.
It IS madness.
Actually, it's not.  It's called lack of confidence.
So.
See you soon.
Please bring a hanky, a sick bag and your seat belt fastened at all times.
Or else just a sense of the ridiculous.
If, however, you come and you go, and you think what I have written is a load of tosh, then I will be blissfully unaware of it.
And will still have my memories building up nicely in this little blog of mine.
Which is, after all, what this is all about.

xxx