What Were You Talking About on Your Blog a Year Ago?
The nicest part about keeping a blog is looking backwards, perhaps in yearly increments, to see how life has changed. When we're in the moment, it can feel as if the now may last forever, or, at the very least, the feelings invoked by what is happening now may last forever. But if you jump backwards into your archives, you can revisit posts and see that often times, while reading about the event may still bring with it sadness or joy, the intensity of those feelings are not as they were when you wrote the post.
Photo Credit: Calendar via Shutterstock.
A year ago this week, we were separating the twins into two separate rooms. At the time, I was as devastated as they were over the idea of them being separated for the first time. And then we set up the rooms and made them their own, and now they enjoy weekly sleepovers in each other's space. (They each keep a sleeping bag in the other person's room, and the agreement they have is that the other person can always declare that they need a night of togetherness and sleep on the other person's floor.) It feels as if they've had two separate rooms for years vs. twelve months.
Two years ago this week, I was worrying about kindergarten beginning and still reeling from a crazy summer which involved helping my parents move from my childhood home, finish edits on a book, and teach the twins how to swim. And look, kindergarten went fine. We all survived; in fact, some may even say thrived, in elementary school. I love my parent's new house, even if I do drive by their old home every once in a while when I have to go back to my childhood town.
Three years ago this week, about 100 of you were distracting me with a round of Blogger Bingo. We had two medical appointments that week, and the one we thought was nothing turned out to lead to surgery, and the one that we were really worried about turned out to lead to more waiting. In fact, we're still taking this wait-and-see approach. But in that post, I told the story of the Wolvog's bris, which had happened 5 years before that. Equally as precious as the post itself are the comments beneath which remind me how many people were waiting with me at the time; holding my hand.
Four years ago this week, I was writing about the time I followed my husband into one of the sperm donation rooms at the clinic wearing a merry widow and knee-high boots underneath my jeans and sweatshirt. That post later became what I read at BlogHer's Voices of the Year. If it wouldn't mean donning what amounts to someone else's underwear, I would totally create the sisterhood of the traveling merry widow.
Five years ago this week, Grace Paley died, and I wrote about hugging her when I went back to my grad school program in the middle of treatments. That trip sucked. Hardcore. I had stopped writing because I was depressed, and I wasn't conceiving, so I went back to my program for this reading and felt so empty-handed -- no child and no book -- whereas it seemed that everyone else had one or the other or both. And just sharing that moment with her: two women, with the older one clearly seeing how much I was struggling. And she just held me for the longest time until I could compose myself.
Six years ago this week, beyond starting things such as Infertility's Common Thread (which still lives on) and Operation Heads Up (which also still lives on), I was celebrating my Needle Day anniversary, the first time I gave myself an injection. It was a really empowering experience to overcome one of my bigger fears -- needles -- and use it on myself. As I wrote: "But it isn’t the needles themselves. The pain is instantaneous. It’s the psychological effects–the why you’re holding a needle in the first place."
If you've never participated in Bereaved and Blessed's Time Warp, you should jump into the next one in mid-September because it's a great way to reflect on how far you've come from a moment in time.
Now go dive into your archives and tell us what you were doing a year (or two or three) ago. How has life changed? How is it still the same?