“It’s better to blog sporadically than never to have blogged at all.” -Morgan Freeman

I’m not sure if you remember— it’s been a really long time— but when I last wrote, I told you about a fish named Lucy. We had high hopes for Lucy. She was hardy and hungry and female. She had a yellow submarine in her tank. 

But, despite all of the good vibes and great furniture we gave her, she died. 

I was genuinely sad about this, but it turns out I was the only one. Matt was relieved that all of my fretting about water temperature would be coming to an end. The girls paused for a three-second moment of silence and then moved on to more important things, like not separating their underpants from their pants-pants before putting them in the hamper. 

Lucy died in the midst of a lot of tumult. We had just purchased and moved to a new house. The girls were beginning to wrap their heads around the the idea of another new school that fall. I was very pregnant with George. 

The time since Lucy died has felt difficult. Not to shade Lucy in death, but it has absolutely nothing to do with her. Life is just difficult. Sometimes there’s more difficulty. Sometimes less. Sometimes we skate over it on a sparkly sheet of optimism. Sometimes we get stuck. 

Lately, I have been marred in the overwhelming tug of the everyday. The worry, guilt, messiness and exhaustion of parenthood. The push and pull of having four children who are all growing up so head-spinningly fast. The creeping anxiety that I am doing too many things and doing none of them right or well. 

I am sad that I haven’t written more. I haven’t written because I am waiting for life to feel easier. 

I realize now how silly that is. 

The other night, Matt and I got into a discussion about misattributed quotes. It began with my assertion that Margaret Atwood originated the dark and deeply true “Men are afraid women will laugh at them...” quote. 

Turns out she stated the thought in a less-succinct way and has since been paraphrased. 

Matt mentioned a quote, credited to Voltaire, that is often referenced by the reviewers in his close-knit but cutthroat book reviewer community. 

“Life is a shipwreck, but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats.”

Maybe Voltaire said it. Maybe he didn’t. Maybe Morgan Freeman said it because the internet tells me he says a lot of mind-blowing philosophical things. The truth is probably more muddled than that, but it’s an important notion all the same.

While I wouldn’t characterize life as a shipwreck, it can be bumpy and turbulent. It can feel unsteady and uncertain. This lifeboat feels small and cluttered and has me thinking that maybe an open-concept lifeboat would’ve been better? 

But for the time being, I'm in it. 

And as I float forward, slowly and inefficiently, I should probably document my time here. If I wait for life to feel perfect, I may never write again. 

So if you hear something off in the distance that sounds garbled and out of tune, like a haggard mermaid yelling at her merchildren to separate their underpants from their fin pants, it's just me.... looking ahead, navigating the fog, and, very poorly but earnestly, singing.