Neglected blog needs action

Look at this poor little blog.

Nobody writes on it anymore.

A few people still read it.

Some are Russian bots, according to my analytics. Some are women who are trying to come to terms with infertility and are just beginning to turn their thoughts to adoption.Some are moms whose daughters have just been diagnosed with scoliosis.

Some are folks thinking about heading down to New Orleans for the Mardi Gras.

Some just googled "big tits."

Yeah. Sad isn't it?

I just haven't had much time to write for "fun." That's because, for the last year, I've had this full time job. And I do mean full time. Today was my ONE day of vacation. For the year. 

One year ago last month, I became the sports editor at this little paper called L'Observateur"  in LaPlace, Louisiana, which is a suburb of New Orleans.

"L'Observateur" is French for "the observer." No one can pronounce it, though. Most people call it "the L'ObservaTOR." Or just "The Lobster." That's easier to say and to spell. If they would make it our email name that would be soooo much easier.

I joined a staff of eight -- an editor, a receptionist, a graphics person, a news reporter who was greener than grass, a circulation person and two ad reps.

A few months in, the news reporter left us. And, suddenly, I became a news staff of one.

Well, that's not completely true. The editor does most of the crime and government stuff. I just do the sports. And the features. And anything else that comes up.

I've covered football, basketball, baseball, golf, track and soccer, grand openings, closings and a sausage eating contest.

I've covered great athletes, old athletes and some that will be someday. I've seen teams win championships and just fall short. I even got to cover a game coached by my own kid.

I learned how to paginate, write headlines and take pictures. Maybe someday I'll learn how to take an action shot. For now, all my athletes have to stand still. Somebody tell that to the basketball players. And could you ask the referees to stay out of my frame. I have more photos of their butts.

I'm lucky that there have been no shortages of stories in my area. In the past year I have written about a former NBA great and Louisiana Sports Hall of Famer who now is coaching girls basketball, a volleyball coach who went on a mission and entered a body building bikini contest, a rock and roll band that just missed getting a Grammy nomination, a young lady who earned a college scholarship for riding a horse and this newish fad called vaping.

I've also covered the aftermath of a tornado, a deadly car crash that took the life of a local fire chief and the various fundraisers our community has organized to help them.

I've been to schools, the Veterans Home and inside people's houses.

I've written about special kids and kids with special needs.

I interviewed a 3-year-old. Well, I tried.

And remember my friend who lost her sheriff's deputy husband? I got to write about her and her new husband -- yes, another cop.

I write a lot, about a lot of different subjects. On week I wrote 10 stories for two editions. My phone contact list includes the local Sheriff, the DA about 60 different coaches and a dozen or so players.

At least I'm never bored. But I am pretty tired.

So I'm sorry that I don't have much time to write about The Teen, who is now a sophomore in high school and excelling at school. She is fully recovered from her scoliosis surgery with little effects except she can't bend over. That means she can't pick up her socks, much to the delight of the little dog who likes to drag them into the living room. She tried golf at school, but that didn't go too well. You know how they say "address the ball"? She had to propose to it on one knee.

The Coach is still a coach, just without a team. He's actively looking for another team to coach and has applied for a few positions. It has to be right, though. In his free time, he drives an Uber in New Orleans and he really loves it. Keeps him busy too.

He is still teaching Special Education at the local school. The emotionally disturbed kids. That's why I rarely complain about my job.

And Mama is still Mama, calling every other day for help with her phone or her iPad. She's no longer reading cards in the French Quarter, I'm sad to say. But she had a little procedure on her heart about a year ago, which has kept her going and out of the Hospital on the Hill. (Knock wood)

And I still have this little blog. I wish I had more time. I wish had more stories.

Like mother, like daughter

I have never had a guest blogger here.

Hell, people barely read my musings on these pages -- except for the Russian site scraper people (WTF y'all???!!), and some one or thing in Mountain View, California, who/which reads my posts and then leaves random spam comments like "I read this post completely concerning the comparison of hottest and earlier technologies. Please visit my site -- IwishIhadabigpenis."

So then, why would I invite someone else to write for me when I'm having so much darn fun?

Oh, I have been asked to write for other blogs. I've written about my experiences as an infertile woman who eventually adopted a beautiful baby girl who fulfilled all of my dreams. And I've written for a local moms blog about what it's like to live with that beautiful baby girl now that she is a snarky tween who refuses to come out of her room except for macaroni and cheese. And I get to do another one next month!

I do regularly share excellent blog posts I find on one of the six (yes, six) Facebook pages I manage, including my own and the one for this little blog,  and the one for my little book.  I also manage the one for the Norco Christmas Parade because, well, it ends at my house; and the one for my husband's baseball team because, well, Coach isn't very good at it; and the one for the Louisiana Sports Writers Association, because I can. (But I was not qualified to work for the new digital-first newspaper. Go figure!)  Yes, I digress. A lot.

My husband has his own blog. He writes, I check his grammar.

And I have encouraged my snarky tween to write her own blog. She did for a while, but just doesn't seem to be as focused has her mom. I think she could give the world some fascinating insight on what it's like to be in middle school (hey, James Patterson did it, and so did Jeff Kinney). I also think she could give amazing insight into Dr. Who. After all, she spent the whole summer watching EVERY EPISODE EVER MADE on Netflix while her dad and I were in the pool.

Besides all that, my kid is an excellent -- no, I mean an EXCELLENT writer. She is better than me. Actually, she puts me to shame. Because my kid can write fiction. Really, really good fiction.

A year or so ago she asked if she could read me something she wrote. Like the good mom I am, I said, "Sure." Like the good mom I am, I listened to her read me a story. And I was amazed. In fact, I about fell on the floor. Then, like the good mom I am, I kind of accused her of stealing it.

"Where did you get that from?" I demanded. "I wrote it," she replied. "But where did you get it? Did you see that somewhere? Read it somewhere?" "No," she said. "I just made it up."

And I kind of did it to her again this week when she read me the one she wrote for school.

It's a little Dr. Who inspired story about the angels who turn to stone. If you're a Dr. Who fan, you get it. If you don't (like me), you can Google it (like I did).

Here is a snippet:

The Lonely Assassins

     Stone is just stone, right? Yes, it is. But then you turn around. You blink. Then it's different and you don't have any time to witness just what the stone has become. All of your time has been rewound and you don't know where you are. You don't know when  you are. You have to relive your life over again.

     That's what happened to me.

     I was sent back. Who knows how far?

     It was the angels that sent me here. You know, the stone angel statues that look like they're crying? Yeah, them. One grabbed my arm and now here I am.

     That's what the angels do. They send you through time. They seem harmless, they're anything but harmless. You think statues can't hurt you? You're wrong. It's not like they have anything better to do. I mean, they're statues.

     It all started Monday, September 14th, 2009. Reagen and I were at an old house. We'd never been to the house before -- it just caught Raegen's eye. Not mine. I would've stayed as far as I could from that house if I had the choice. She just happened to be persuasive. 

     There were statues in the garden. I saw them from the window. It seemed like one was looking straight at me, through the spaces in its stone fingers. This seemed like a foolish thought at the time, so I dismissed it just as soon as it'd been thought up. Statues can't look at me, I thought. But boy, was I wrong. They could do much more than that.

I'm pretty darned impressed. It's a pretty good story. Yes, later on she uses some of the catch phrases about not blinking, but I love the way she weaved it all into her own story. 

Well done, my girl.

A few weeks ago, she was assigned to write about "Where I'm From."

This is what she wrote:

(I Am From) Adoption

I am from a familiar place known as Apple Street, but at the same time from high rise houses somewhere else. I am from a woman who is no longer required to look after me and one who always will be. From a writer and a coach. I am from a worker and a runaway. From the place I visit and the one that I live. I am from two places, two families, two homes, two hearts.

(Please note that the "runaway" is in reference to her biological father, with whom we have no contact.)

And again, I was blown away.

I guess every mom has her moment when her kid does something amazing and knocks her socks off. Walking. Talking. Showering without being asked. Cleaning their room. Saying please and thank you. 

Sometimes it's an observation. Sometimes it's with a simple truth. Sometimes it's with a fiction. Sometimes it's the way a kid handles something way beyond their years. 

And sometimes it's when you realize that they just get the things that they're supposed to, and that makes you think that, maybe, just maybe, you're doing your job right.