Not sure when I became the kind of blogger that only writes when I have something specific to say. Remember the good old days when I just blogged all the time about every random thing that caught my attention? I have a daily microblog thing going on on Instagram. You know what I have found? It’s the photos. I LOVE photos. They tell stories. So when I write here, I can knock out a post in a few hours, but then I have to take or choose photos… which can literally take me days (I wrote this 2 weeks ago). I have drafts, full articles, that have never been published because I just never got to finding the right photos. So yes, Instagram kind of forces me to select a photo from the day (there is at least one photo every day since Charly was born), and then share a bit about the day that was. Oh, yes… back to the topic! Do you remember how bad it was to be called a tattletale? I do. It causes that internal flinch in a goodytwoshoes like myself. From bullies on the playground to grown ups – teachers, parents, aunts and uncles; being called a tattletale was about the worst thing you could be called.
Last Friday another child intentionally hurt my baby girl for the first time; and a part of my heart just shattered as her face went from confusion to shock to pain and then crumpled as she fell back crying. I get an aching throb in my chest and my throat closes even remembering it and I want to wrap myself around her and never let her go. I started writing this post the evening it happened, but I kept crying. It’s taken me over a week to be able to finish it.