You know and I know that when I quit blogging, it was the right thing to do.
After I laid my blog to rest, the only daily stats I analyzed were our household reserves of cheap coffee and gin. I tracked the number of visits from the tooth fairy, the poop fairy, and the truant officer, but that was all. I was never tempted to do anything wacky or force any spiritual insights about motherhood just so I’d have something to write about, and that was a big relief to everyone (especially the poop fairy. I owe that guy some sick leave, believe me).
I spent more time with my family, and less time arguing with Anon. about whether the catechism somehow secretly allows for certain personal methods of the personal relief of personal tension, provided that your wife doesn’t understand you. (Sir, if you’re reading this, I do pray for you from time to time, but I’d really like you to stay the hell out of my new combox. Seriously: ew.)
When I quit blogging, I never had to justify putting off the school day while the Crispix on the floor got hard and the children under the table got soggy, because I was still searching for an image of, oh, say, a sad goldfish. Yes yes, Mama wuvs you, too, but you gotta leave me and Google alone until we find just the right uncopyrighted diagram of a manual eggbeater that will really drive my point home.
When I stopped blogging, the monthly checks for $1. 83 from Google Adsense stopped rolling in. And, somehow at the same time, I had to confess vanity less often.
But I missed writing. It’s not that I had anything to say, mind you. I just missed saying it. So, just days before my eighth child was born and against medical advice (from the baby, who was trying as hard as she could to get me to wet my pants), I accepted an offer to blog for InsideCatholic. Now, the other folks there contribute pithy and astute commentary on politics, the arts, science, and Catholic culture. I, conversely, link to a news story called “Middle Schooler Banned For Causing a Stink” about a kid who was prosecuted for deliberately farting on the bus. (To my credit, I haven’t actually posted that one yet, but that’s mostly because I haven’t found a better title than, “I tol’ ’em it wuddn’t me.”)
My fellow IC bloggers have been more than gracious, and I’m not quitting or anything. But I think I’d just like to have a place where I don’t feel sheepish all the time. A little bus of my own, you might say, where farting is allowed. Whoopee! Also, I like the idea of being able to mock, threaten, and expel people just because I’m the only one who knows what the password is. Also: I’m sure you’re a nice lady, but “comma-dot-dot-dot” is not the all-purpose punctuational solution you think it is, so please don’t try that here.
My name is Simcha Fisher. I write because I feel sad and stupid when I’m not writing. But that doesn’t mean that what I write isn’t sad and stupid. It is, it is!
Welcome, and please be patient as I get used to this routine again. So far, my relationship with WordPress has been less than ravishing, but we shall see. Also, I can’t remember how to change the font of the post titles, so you’ll have to put up with Cauterized Shelfwear Sans Serif, or whatever it’s called. Anyway, hi, everyone! Say hello, so I know you’re still out there!