I’m not afraid to call a spade a spade. To cry wolf. To roll my eyes at my own self. Yes, yes YES. I get it. I know! I went to a blogging conference and realized I had to stop blogging. STAT.

Irony doesn’t stop there.

During an interview with The Washington Fing Post (like Oh My God), I worked through some of my blog angst. It was like all I needed was for some reporter from some totally random newspaper to interview me and I’d go, “Hu. No, I see the value in blogging.” And I did.

And lo, the people rejoiced.

But there are changes. I’m changing. I’m currently caught up in design standards, type 2 diabites and “what the hell to do with my preschooler who is too smart for her own good”. The reason I started this blog has morphed in to something else. My blog? It’s growing up. It’s not about postpartum depression or newborn spitup. It’s not about accepting my role as a mother. No, it’s a place I go to connect, to voice an opinion, to reach out to like minded moms.

Which is why I’m excited to announce that there will be a MRS. FLINGER VERSION TWO POINT OH (:: OHohohoh echo :: )

Watch for it. Subscribe for it. Wait for it. It’s coming. It’s awesome. I’m so excited I can hardly sleep at night. (ok, that’s a stretch. I sleep just fine.) But I do think this is the Best Thing Ever that’s happened to this space and I am very excited to share it with you.

In the mean-time:

Let’s play a game, shall we? While we wait for routers to propagate, for servers to update, for this lazy-ass-designer (god, who did I hire to do this thing anywa? Oh, me, right..) let’s play a little “get to know you” ice-breaker.

You ready?

Grab a glass of wine. I’ll wait. (humm a humm)

Ok. We’re set: Here goes:

Let’s start a story and each comment hereafter continues the story as it is told above it. Remember doing this in school? Someone would start a story and someone else would continue it, add to it and so on? It’s fun. No! Trust me. Not like “drinking game” fun but fun-non-the-less.

Ready? I’ll start (shocker)

:: A man walked down the street. He was a good man, a noble man, a man who knew good fashion and wore superb hats. He clicked his heals as the cobblestone street passed under him. He was excited. He was energetic. He was waiting for new of ...... ::

Your turn. Ready? Go! (someone add to this and then someone else add to their story and so on. Got it? Yes? Good. Let the good times roll, people!)

It’s so cliche, that whole, “their childhood went so fast” gig. I heard it again tonight at my daughter’s gymnastic. A mom, who has two kids in college, confessed she pines for those early years when one toddled around and the other ran frantic between friends and toys.

I looked at her like she’d been smokin’ the doobey.

But then I looked again at my son, already stable and walking, already half way up the stairs in the .2 minutes it took the lady to tell me this short story, already mostly bald from the stress of my working and I wondered: “Will it go too fast?”

It will. I know.

My daughter says the most hilarious things now. Things that generally make me guffaw in the car as I’m driving down the road to take her to a playdate/swimming lesson/gymnastics/preschool. She comes up with new sayings daily and literally has her own person now. She’s almost fifteen. Or four. Either way.

My son kisses me now on the lips when I say “I love you” and he snuggles his cheek against mine when I tell him it’s time to go to bed. He runs, happily, with his new-found freedom when I have the opportunity to let him outside. He is always busy building and sorting cups or Tupperware. Or his sister’s ponies.

Life is short and fast. It’s happening before my eyes. I’m working hard to find a balance and I’m struggling. I know we all do. I know. I also know I’m not in this for fame or money or popularity. I’m not in it to be The Best. I’m in it to be The Best I can Be and to be a good mom and maybe even a good programmer. Some days I might even make a client happy.

I love those days.

In the mean time, things are changing. Children grow up and friends grow in to family and family grows in to daily phone calls. Life spins madly on.

What is the meaning of this ten minute rambling session? I will not be here much for a while. Unless I’m hit with something I just HAVE to write. But I’m going stat-free (good-bye stat counter!) and eventually I’ll be ad free and one day I’ll be reader free, I’m sure. Because if there’s one thing we know, it’s that having a life does not bring on traffic.

And so? It’s the beginning of the end of sorts.

Where this road leads us? I have no idea. But I’m buckled in and ready for the ride.

Is it possible to be so far behind in your work that you get lapped by yourself? Like in High School when that skinny bitch would fly by you on lap 5 and there were still 17 to go. (Did I ever mention I was on some drug-induced psychosis that made me run the 10K on a track? That’s 22 and a half laps in a circle. “Hamster on a wheel” comes to mind or maybe even Smashing Pumpkins ”Bullet with Butterfly Wings: Rat in a cage” is more befitting.) I’m not sure who the skinny bitch in this analogy is but she just lapped me with her laptop and completed todo list and a fistful of happy clients.

Me? I’m more like a whale.

A Fail Whale in fact.

Since I think I’ve pretty much exhausted my Brutally Honest-ness for the week on Saturday’s post, and since I have a deadline on Friday and no nanny (read: copious amounts of caffeine and green tea pills) and there are still a few hundred emails to reply to, I’m keeping it simple.

You want to see my stats? Or you want to see my fugly dress?

FUGLY DRESS WINS.

The Next Big Thing is in the works. Things may be spotty around here for a bit.

But! I leave you with this! For your viewing pleasure. :: snort ::

Do I keep? Or take back?

Fugly is IN.

Or at least I hope it is. Otherwise it’s just me wrapped up in my Grandmother’s old drapes.

Play Along! You’ll look better, I promise

<a href="http://mrs.flinger.us"><img src="http://farm4.static.flickr.com/3130/2394484739_8a1ed73b65_m.jpg" alt="Brutally Honest Mondays” border="0" /></a>