Heidi G karlsson

so Christmas. The little (now family 0f 6) is somewhere on the water between here and the island. All is empty and silent. clean. No little boots and coats compete with the jacket and scarf I left upstairs. It's there all on its unhappy solitary own. They drove away in their borrowed mini-van after two weeks of incredibly interrupting my life. Nothing was normal. Every moment mattered. Making eye contact. Being there. Every day. All times of the day. Sharing stories. Asking questions. Sitting. Last words constantly repeated by Arabelle. Abrupt kisses erupting from Timmy. Facts and numbers broken down and explained by Joe. He knows everyone's birthday. And Havalah. She finally came the 26th. My sister was so glad. I couldn't read my bible or get changed in any sort of religious seclusion. I had to teach them to knock. It was shocking and a little offensive to them. Why on earth would I even want to stop them from coming into my room when they KNEW I was in there? Didn't ...

I think that I know things. Like I think that I know that most people who have blogs secretly hope that they will be "discovered" by readers who will find them and every aspect of their lives, fascinating. People all over the world, they hope, will tune in each week to see what has been posted, what the great and intriguing blogger has said. I think that people think that, because I think that. So far, my blog has been a dismal failure and I must be boring as pie and full of uninteresting drivel, because masses haven't even begun flocking to me. Who are these people who's blogs make them famous? Is there such a thing? Or is it famous people who have popular blogs... famous first, blog second. And I will never be famous. Or perhaps I will never be comparatively famous. One must consider the size of the pond. I am known by people I don't know. But that's a stretch. Anyway. I wonder how many bloggers have the secret fantasy of being found and followed. Read. Admi...