and don't be shy with the gah-lic

When I was pregnant with Chicken, I asked Ryan to make spaghetti, just classic spaghetti with red sauce and lots of parmesan cheese on top. It was hot, spicy, with slippery noodles and thick hunks of tomato. It was perfection. I ate that spaghetti every day for a week. 

And then, on the seventh day, the Lord reminded me that nobody should eat the same thing for a week. I couldn't eat the red sauce anymore. I couldn't even think about it without my gums starting to emit warm pre-vomit mouth juice.

I'm having a similar problem right now. Not with red sauce. I'm back on red sauce. I want to shower in red sauce. I could baptize my baby in red sauce. 

No, I'm having love-it-till-you-hate-it problem with my own writing. I've been trying to carve out time to write every day, and doing it pretty successfully. I feel like my writing antennae is up and picking up signals. Throughout my day I think about how I could write a blog post about whatever is happening. I jot down notes and come back to them later. Blogging regularly is a way to exorcise the frustrations of Momming. But blogging regularly is also a harsh reminder that I can only tell stories one kind of way. I am now thoroughly sick of the sound of my own voice.

And if I'm sick of me, I can't help but wonder if you are, too?

Hang in there, loyal dozen readers and guy in Russia. 

I'm going to spice up my sauce.


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