A Real Writer

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I have a few ideas floating around in my head. Posts I’d like to write, pictures I’d like to take, projects I’d like to finish, but they’re all just stuck as ideas in my head. And why? Because I wanted to be a real writer.

Writer

What’s the mark of a real writer? Well, getting paid, of course. So, two years ago, when a job writing and editing fell into my lap, I jumped at the chance to “work from home.”

Work from home! Those are words few people truly understand. Clearly, my husband and kids don’t quite get it. I know this because I’m constantly asked what I did all day. Here’s the only advantage to working from home: You don’t have to brush your hair. Well, make that two advantages: You don’t have to wear pants, either.

Since I gave away the pros, let me tell you the cons. People expect you to do all the housework, because you were home! Children think you can brink them forgotten homework or fancy lunches because you are home! Husbands believe you have time to run back and forth from the shop two towns away because you’re home. And people think you didn’t really work because you worked from home. I swear some days I’d like to put one of those “tiny houses” in my back yard so I can go to the “office” every day.

However, it’s not all bad. The job I took focuses on politics. It’s funny, when I was young, I loved politics. I started out as a debate team nerd who moved up to Political Science major back when Bill Clinton was having a few cigars.

Then life stepped in, and I no longer devoured headlines or poured over the daily news. I was focused on dance recitals and football games. Then I took this job, and in a way, I felt like some piece of my old self returned.

I watch the news. I devour the headlines. And then I decide which stories are worth regurgitating with a little more commentary sprinkled in. In many ways, I love it. I love when I can write something people gravitate towards. I love it when people connect to my point of view. Heck, I even love it when they challenge me to a little debate. But I’m tired.

I’m tired of the Russians. I’m tired of words like collusion and obstruction. I’m tired of the name calling and the investigations. And I’m sick of this world where people no longer strive to find the middle ground. Maybe that’s the part that bothers me the most. The right and the left have co-existed for centuries, but there were always bi-partisan efforts and now we’re all in a frenzy to be right. At my core, I’m the person who strives to see both sides, and today’s culture doesn’t resonate with my core at all.

I wish life were like the movies. How great would it be if this were the movie “DAVE” and we all sat down and made concessions until we solved the problems?

Suddenly, I find myself thinking there was great wisdom from the generation that raised their children not to discuss politics or religion. I’m not gonna bother with which side I’m on. There’s a whole other website out there where I air all that. In my quest to become a writer, I now miss writing.

So, I’m going to try this again. Hello. My name is Tiffany and I’m a writer.

I love to write about my quirky kids. At this point, two of them are grown, but they’re still my kids. We have 5 more to go, and that’s a lot of stories left to tell. Plus, I’ve spent 23 years with my husband. I like to joke that I’m due for an upgrade, but really, he’s a gem. But we butt heads, a lot. Until we don’t, and those are the days of magic.

And I’m a grandma. Well, I’m a Momo to be exact. That’s a whole lotta fun and it sure does drive my kids insane because grandkids get special treatment. I make no apologies about it.

raisekids

Here’s the thing. I know I’ve said this before- I’m going to start writing more, but I found a new resolve.

I was invited to be the guest speaker at an adoption conference and while preparing for my big speech I realized I know a thing or two about a thing or two. I know about kids who face different challenges and blending a family of biological and adopted children and how to navigate the ever-infuriating system. And I’m not done telling our story, but I am done sugar coating it.

So tune in text time. I’ll tell you all about the grass that isn’t greener.

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