So . . . where have you been?

Yeah, I know it's been a long time since I posted anything here. Just shy of six months. And I honestly thought I might get away with just sneaking back in, dropping a post, and scooching out quietly .

Then Carie, that dutiful yet lovely blogger of good hair, outed me.

So here I am, 'splaining myself. I really have you to blame. You, and your contagious obsession with Facebook.

See, after I sent Finn off to school, I signed up on Facebook, aiming to find myself a community of kindred spirits and old, familiar souls who I could find solace with, who could comfort me through the trauma of surrendering my child to public education. I didn't find you so much, but in the months that followed, I did find my slayer army, my troop of rabid vampires, folks who are also defined by the Breakfast Club and White Snake, and people willing to help me populate my nauseatingly cute, virtual rain forest.

I suppose that's something--but I know, not really an excuse. And I don't so much have one of those, except to say that it takes a lot of time to build a truly killer collection of eyesores, figurines, and flair.

I Miss You Guys

Today is my nephew's graduation. Last week my other nephew turned 21. And I'm not there.

I feel like crap. (Leave it to me to take two moments of celebration and turn them into my personal boofest.)

I know, I know, they don't really care if I'm there or not. I'm painfully aware of that. I'd just like to say that I wish I could be there.

I wish I could buy 21 his "first drink." I wish I could give him unsolicited advice that he doesn't want or need because he is already so much wiser than I'll ever be. I wish I could just sit there, and watch him, and hear his stories and laugh with aunt-pride at his jokes. Because he can tell a good one. I wish I could see him in his moment, not even close to the top of his game, with his future splayed hopefully before him, at his whim, and him, ready, willing, and primed, to fly off and conqueror worlds that I can't even dream of.

And I wish I could congratulate my graduate in person. I wish I could tussle his hair and pinch his cheeks and hopelessly embarrass him in front of all of his friends. And then I wish we could sit out on my sister's deck and make snarky remarks about the world and graduating and the college he's going to go to. I wish I could tell him to keep his pillow cases clean, just in case "someone" drops by unexpectedly. I wish I could tell him to keep his eyes open because opportunities aren't so brazen as to actually knock. And I wish I could tell him to, seriously, dude, call your mom often, because she'll be heartbroken if you don't.

And I wish I could be there for my sister, who has tirelessly and courageously and all those other adverbs that describe amazing and unbelievable feats of heroism, raised these two beautiful boys into amazing men. I wish I could just sit in a room, on the far edges, quietly sipping an iced tea and eating her oyster crackers and bask in her celebration, her light, her happy sadness (or sad happiness) as she watches her babies, her toddlers, her kids, her tween, her teenagers, leave home and fly with their own wings.

I Know You Doubt My Sincerity . . .

But, someday, I will blog again, and I will fill those few seconds of your day that you may spend here before you bounce somewhere much more interesting with visions of colonoscopies, the madness of preschool, and flashes of my uneventful and boring dreams (which always seem to revolve around not having enough time to make my copies before I start my morning class at the junior high where I used to teach--or finding out that all my degrees are invalid because I forgot to take Health in high school).

And that, my friends, is the absolute longest sentence I have ever written. And this, the shortest.

Psych.