I was talking to Troy last night about how life just feels so…relentless lately. Of course having a toddler in the house, even one who (touchwoodfingerscrossedtwirlaroundthreetimesandclucklikeachicken) is mostly sleeping through the night, is a lot of work. Troy is still working long hours. I’m still homeschooling Annalie. And it’s the holidays, which means extra items on everyone’s to-do list. Especially with the days getting dark so early, it seems like I am constantly running behind, that I never reach the end of my list.

Troy suggested that maybe right now, just for a little while, I need to cut back on one or two things. I agreed that sounded good in theory. Then I realized: I’m two weeks behind on Flickring photos (which I do mainly for the grandparents, so I’m feeling bad about that). I hadn’t blogged in eight days. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d worked on any of the three big crocheting projects in progress. Aside from some Christmas treats, I’ve barely even cooked dinner in weeks.

Yes, I wrote backwards on my hand just to remind you. You’re welcome.

Now I’m thinking that part of my problem is that I have not been doing much of anything creative lately. Luckily, it’s almost time for 7 Days again. (Note that it starts in the middle of the week this time, this coming Wednesday, the 21st.) That always provides a much-needed jolt of creative energy, not to mention it’s like a quarterly reunion of old friends at this point.

Whatever. It’s life, sometimes it’s crazy, sometimes it’s CRAZY, and usually it’s fun. Christmas is only a week away, and (throwsaltovermyshoulderwishonastarwearsomegarlic) we’re all healthy. We’re not traveling this year so we’re avoiding that stress. Things will get better and I’ll crochet and blog and cook more again someday. This is only a season.

And hey, it’s a season with lots of pretty lights to enjoy.

What was your favorite children’s book? —Niki

I could easily make a list of my favorite hundred children’s books. But instead I’m going with the first one that leapt to mind.

The Saturdays, by Elizabeth Enright.

This book was so important to me as a kid that I can still remember coming across it on the shelf in my elementary-school library. I remember which bookcase it was on, and that I had to reach up to pull the book down. I remember reading the copy on the book jacket and having my interest piqued by the idea of a family of four kids—aspiring actress Mona, 13; mischeivous, piano-playing Rush, 12; dreamy artist and dancer Randy, 10; and solid, unflappable Oliver, 6—forming their own club. (I only have one brother, and although we love each other, we’re different enough that as kids we spent more time bickering and annoying each other than playing together. I could only barely imagine a family where your best friends were your siblings.) Then I opened the book and read the first page, and was immediately charmed by the description of these kids sitting in their attic, listening to the rain hissing and sizzling as it came down the chimney and complaining about how bored they were. I could relate to that! Also, I loved rain even back then, so that was guaranteed to pull me in.

Then I kept reading, as they discussed and rejected ways to relieve their boredom. They decided, at Randy’s suggestion, to pool their weekly allowances and take turns using the whole amount to have an adventure each Saturday afternoon. They came up with a clever name for their club: the Independent Saturday Afternoon Adventure Club, which they could airily refer to as “I.S.A.A.C.” around others. I goggled even back then in 1982 at the amount: adding up each of the older kids’ allowance of fifty cents each and Oliver’s ten cents, they would “have an adventure” every Saturday with the grand sum of $1.60. One dollar. And sixty cents. I don’t think any economics lesson could have taught me more memorably and clearly about inflation since 1941 (the year the book was published).

The adventures they had were fantastic to my seven-year-old Midwestern self, too. Randy went to the art museum and wound up having tea and petit fours (the first time I’d heard of those) at the cafe with a slightly mysterious old lady who’d known their father as a boy, and hearing all about the time she ran away with the circus when she was a girl in Paris. Rush took the bus to the Met to see an opera (a 12-year-old boy, voluntarily going to an opera!?) and ended up rescuing a bedraggled stray dog whom they adopted and named (natch) Isaac. Mona went to a beauty salon and recklessly decided to cut off her waist-length braids, accidentally winding up with a scandalous blood-red manicure which eventually had to be removed at home with perfume (you better believe I tried that a time or two). Oliver hoarded up the dimes the other kids gave him and calmly went to the circus all by himself one day, causing a panic at home when they realized it. After that they decided to go on their adventures as a group, for safety.

This book used to make me long to live in New York in 1941, when I would have been allowed to go operas and museums by myself at the age of 10 or 11. I still re-read The Saturdays and the other Melendy family books every year or so, and they still kind of make me feel that way. What strikes me most about them now, though, are two things in particular: (1) these children in 1941 aren’t really that different from kids now—they bickered and played with their siblings, complained about eating vegetables and doing their chores, swam in the summer and ate ice cream till their stomachs ached; and (2) they didn’t have a television. Sometimes I think my slight disdain for television might stem from reading these books about all the amazing things they did back when they didn’t have TV. I doubt I.S.A.A.C. would ever have been invented if there had been a little black-and-white television in their attic playroom that first rainy Saturday.

I’ve been waiting for seven and a half years for Annalie to be old enough for me to read The Saturdays out loud to her. I think 2012 might be the year. I can hardly wait.

I’m taking part in a blogging group called Reverb Broads that will be suggesting daily blogging prompts this December. I won’t do it every day, but I’ll be using them occasionally throughout the month as they tickle my fancy. If you want to join in, feel free! Go here or here to learn more.

Why blog? Why do you or why do you like to blog (recognizing that these are not always the same thing)? —Kristen

The main reason I blog is because Brenda told me to.

:: The End ::

Just kidding. But this post almost could be that short. The main reason I finally started a blog, three years after abandoning the personal website I’d lovingly hand-coded from 1997 to 2004, was because Brenda kept telling me I should do it. She told me that I’m such a writer, and I take good photos, and I should just do it because I would be good at it and have a blast.

I already read and regularly commented on a few blogs, and had been part of the 7 Days community on Flickr for a while, so I knew that it would probably be fun, but I still hesitated, worried that non-internetty friends and relatives wouldn’t understand why I wanted to dedicate a website to talking about my life, that they would see it as a weird, navel-gazing kind of thing to do. I hemmed and hawed for months before I finally took the plunge (assisted by Heather and Jessica‘s excellent tutorials about how to ditch my blogging training wheels) with three posts about making my friends Erin and Rocco’s wedding cakes.

Once I’d started, I wondered why I’d been dragging my feet. Brenda was right; blogging was super fun, and useful! I could post photos and write about what we were up to for my and Troy’s parents, and all the friends and family we lived far away from thanks to the Navy. I could record moments and crafts and recipes I wanted to remember for future reference. I could ask questions and my readers would respond with advice, funny stories, recommendations.

But the best part of being a blogger is how many good friends I’ve made because of my blog. Comments led to emails, to hilarious late-night IM sessions, to in-person meet-ups, to exchanging Christmas cards and care packages, to stopping on road trips for a quick meal of Chinese with old friends I was meeting for the first time. Because of blogging, I have a friend like a sister who will help me unpack my house when I move and come stay with me for three weeks when I’m about to have a baby; and there is a woman in Australia whom I count as one of my best friends, on any continent. Because I blog, I have friends all over the world whom I otherwise never would have met or even known existed.

For a long time, it was seen as slightly shady and downright weird to admit that you had met a friend or significant other online. But as Brenda says (she says lots of good things, which is probably why she’s such a good blogger herself), the internet is better than homeroom. It actually makes more sense to meet friends online in communities you’re both into (blogs, Flickr, Star Trek forums, whatever) than to befriend people who just happen to be sitting next to you in your 3rd-period history class. The internet acts as a filter and leads you to the people who share common traits and values and interests with you. I’ve always had to laugh when I read news articles about the concern that people spending so much time online will lead to them not knowing how to interact with the real world. For me, the internet—including my blog—has been an amazing portal to the real world and some wonderful people.

I’m taking part in a blogging group called Reverb Broads that will be suggesting daily blogging prompts this December. I won’t do it every day, but I’ll be using them occasionally throughout the month as they tickle my fancy. If you want to join in, feel free! Go here or here to learn more.