My well of creativity has run dry. All week long I’ve had nothing to say, and I still don’t. I don’t even really feel like blog-chatting.

I mean, I want to chat, but I have no idea about what.

I get this way about life in general, in which case it’s called “boredom.” When General Apathy takes over (usually every day around 3 pm), I kick start myself by calling up a friend and asking what she’s making for supper, what gossip she knows (yes, I’m naughty), and whether or not she’s had any profound thoughts as of late.

If I’m lucky, she’s in a rambly mood and soon I’m puttsing around the house emptying the dish drainer, cleaning off the table clutter, maybe even setting a pot of rice to cook, all the while the phone smashed between my shoulder and ear. By the time I hit the “end” button, I’m smiling, my brain is jumping with ideas, and I have a renewed energy to do what needs to be done.

When I get in a funk, bloggy-wise, I don’t call anyone. I stew and mope and feel bad about myself in general.

About a week ago, Joy did a post on Ten (Super Rad) Blog Post Ideas. She had a lot of good suggestions, like to do a how-to post, or a day-in-the-life post, or a best-of post, but I can’t (don’t, won’t) just pull that stuff out of my hat. Which brings me to the next point.

I am incapable of coming up with those extremely popular top ten lists. I struggle to generate basic metaphors or lists of three, you know, where you say the dude at the checkout counter was pimply, greasy-haired, and, and, and—oh crap, I don’t know what.

So anyway, I deal with this running-on-empty state of being by doing one of two things: a) nothing, which is deeply unsatisfying and makes me feel like I’m turning into a soggy lump of moldy bread, and b) disciplining myself to type words dagnabbit, itdoesnotmatterwhatwordstheyare. But that feels egocentric and myopic and narcissistic—all those words that are kind of bad but I’m not exactly sure what they mean but I’m probably being them, you know?—because who the heck wants to read a self-discipline session? Exactly.

The bigger issue, the thing that drains me and pulls me down, is that I wish I could spin long, heartfelt, humorous, profound posts like some amazingly gifted people. It’s not going to happen, though, because I don’t have all those weighty thoughts and because it takes all my mental powers and then some to come up with the 600 concise and meaningful words about eggs (or something equally ordinary) that’s due every other week for the paper. I can only do so much.

Yesterday on my way to an appointment to keep me from turning into a wooly mammoth (otherwise known as a haircut), I tuned into NPR just in time to year the end of a talk show in which they were discussing writerly matters. It was kind of hard to hear what they were saying because our van is missing its antenna, but I did make out the guest’s main point which was: don’t worry about being, or not being, like other people—get to know your own voice and develop your own style. Which is kind of scary because what if my voice is irrelevant, or really hoarse, or worse yet, annoyingly shrill?

In spite of my scary panic thoughts, I found his advice to be both soothing and freeing. I am what I am and that’s that. (Brilliant, I know.) I’ll just go on wiping up the sticky spots on the floor and calling my girlfriends and making myself type words when I don’t feel like it.

Happy Friday, dearies!

This same time, years previous: ground pork and white bean chili, chocolate ice cream, baked spaghetti, chocolate mayonnaise cake, a dirt pile

A couple nights ago my older son, husband, and I were goofing around in the kitchen, and my son, who is all pumped up about how strong he’s getting, was begging us to let him pick us up, so I said, Sure, Sonny, show me your stuff, and he promptly scooped my up in his arms and walked around the kitchen. And then he did the same to my husband.

When your child is finally big enough to pick you up easily and carry you around, paradigms wobble.

I wanted some pictures of our resident Popeye, so last night I told my son to come outside with me. “Show me your muscles,” I said. He happily obliged.

“Go get Papa,” I said. “I want to get some pictures, but don’t tell him that. Once he’s out here, pick him up.”

this photo screams Napoleon Dynamite, don’t you think?

My husband was his usual reticent self.

So my son gave up on the muscle-flaunting part and jumped right into the lift-him-off-his-feet part.

And then he picked me up, mama mia!

The end.

This, O World, is my little boy. Blue eyes, jutting chin, scratched up and bleeding. He’s tough as nails and cuddly as a kitten.

Some people have wondered out loud to me if he ever stops smiling. The answer is yes, of course, but it’s true he’s a sunny child, eager to please and quick to forgive.

He’s lavish with his love, too. “Mama,” he said one day, “Can you shoot me through the heart with a bow and arrow?”

“Why?” I asked.

“So I can be in love with you.”

Other things about him:

*Math is his passion. He thuds down the stairs in the morning, snuffly-nosed and rosy-cheeked from a hearty night of sleep, his comforter wrapped around his shoulders, and announces, “I’m ready for my math lesson!” He delights in puzzling over numbers and patterns. He keeps track of what chapter we’re on in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, and he makes sure I say the actual number before I launch into the story.

*Spiders make him scream. It’s not just an excited, oh-no-there’s-a-spider scream, but a true blue cry of pure terror and panic.

*When we went to the post office and the postmistress forgot to offer the kids a lollipop (and I didn’t let them remind her), he sobbed for a good three minutes. Anguished, he was.

*For a little while there, he took up swearing. He was actually pretty good at it, but let me tell you, there’s nothing quite as disconcerting as hearing a little six-year-old chirrup, “What the hell!” He practiced his new phrase at a friend’s house (twice) until the mother sternly explained to him, In our house we don’t talk like that. (Rest assured, we’ve worked with him on appropriate language. He’s no longer, I hope, a bad influence on his peers.)

*The best way to keep him from flailing about during the church service is to rub his back. He hikes his shirt up to his chest and throws his body across my lap, and I run my fingers up and down his back and serenely listen to the service. Or I would get to listen to the service if he didn’t interrupt me every ten seconds to tell me to scratch harder, or to scratch harder with one finger, or to scratch harder with one finger on his left hip bone. It can get tricky. And it gets even trickier when he asks me to rub his scalp, because instead of asking me to rub his scalp, he stage whispers, “Pretend to look for lice in my hair.” It’s kind of hard to look serene and holy when you’re pretend-picking lice out of your kid’s hair.

*He has two speeds: fast and really fast. At the zoo, he never walked from exhibit to exhibit—he ran. Immediately after getting his IV out (after his surgery) and receiving a lecture on Taking It Easy, he sprinted to the bathroom. In bed at night after a full day of life, he flops about vigorously until a switch gets flipped, and BAM, he’s sound asleep.

This same time, years previous: mint wedding cake,  banana cake with creamy peanut butter frosting