My oldest son’s wrist was placed in a full cast yesterday, guaranteeing he will miss his indoor soccer playoffs, and a chance to three-peat with his team. My middle son has been violently ill for the last three days, and is just now getting back to normal.
By the end of this week, I will have buried three friends in as many months. I keep thinking God is testing me, and I know my faith is failing. Now I find myself beset with the inevitability of my mortality: at 43.
Looking back on my life, I am unimpressed. I expected more, actually. Not from my family, of course – that is my constant bright spot – but from my achievements. My career is going okay, I guess, but I am not the division’s best detective. I’m more like a secretary with a gun.
I’m a published author – well, co-author – of a book we had to get self-published. Truth be told, it is not selling well, and I’ve actually lost money on the venture. And speaking of losses, readership here is down – by about 1,000 visits a day. Blogs cannot compete with Twitter/Facebook, and I’m never getting rich and/or famous by doing this. Believe it or not, blogging is hard work, and it takes an inordinate amount of my time.
I’m not quitting, but I’m not putting much effort into posts this week. At least not until after Babs’ funeral. I’ve adopted a laissez-faire on life. Just leave it alone. Go to work. Go home. Repeat.
My goal for the rest of the week is to sit home all day with the family and only break out the computer to play World of Tanks.
That said, I understand I have a responsibility to the readers who haven’t jumped ship, so I’ll still throw out three posts a day this week and see what sticks. Know that my heart will not be in it.
I just need a break; even if it is name only.