Will the real Harmony Shelene Child Roundy please stand up?

the real Harmony Shelene Child Roundy...or is it?

Me, just before getting pregnant with Serenne, gaining 70 lbs., becoming hypothyroid 
and losing all control over my life. This is still the real me in my head. 
Hopefully, someday… in real life too. 5’9” 135-140 lbs.

I guess I’m abandoning roundeo.com. True, there weren’t many who seemed to care whether I ever posted anything or not, and I haven’t added anything to it in over a year, but I had always figured on returning. It saddens me. I suppose it is nostalgia, and that my history is written and recorded there of a significant portion of my life, and my extended family and friends have posted and responded there, and my husband’s blood, sweat and tears created it. But I guess I feel like a fresh start. How I wish fresh starts came so easily in every other area of life. 

I wish I had time to blog. To record my life in a journal. (And to do so very many other things!!)

If I had time to blog:

I would tell you about each one of my precious children. How much I adore them and love them and how unique and fun they each are, their distinct personalities, unique gifts and challenges, and the every day moments that make up our lives together. I would tell you that Motherhood has been the greatest accomplishment and biggest fail of my life. I would tell you how much I wish I could be the mother in my head that does everything, or mostly everything, right, and how frustrating and overwhelming it is to fall short over and over…and over.

I would tell you that I wish I knew what God wanted of me. If what I’m doing is enough, if where I’m at is where I’m supposed to be. Is there more inside me that’s meant to come out, that’s meant to be expressed, explored, pursued, capitalized? Or is this struggling pile of person whose life looks a bit like groundhog day, doing all she can and is meant for? Do I have a calling beyond motherhood? And if so, what the heck is it?

I would tell you that I’m sometimes not even sure who I am or what I want. That I feel a bit like Alice in a wonderland, only with less fanciful creatures and garish colors, and more laundry piles. I would tell you how odd it can be to be a person people never suspect of having insecurities because she’s uninhibited, extroverted, expressive and opinionated. Of how it can be hard not to be misunderstood when you struggle to understand yourself. I’d recommend and discuss the self-help books I’ve read and want to read. I’d tell you how odd too it is to look in the mirror and feel deeply that that person isn’t really you. That the real you is at least 30 lbs. smaller, with less premature signs of aging, and a nice head of hair. About how much I long to open up the boxes labeled “skinny clothes” and slip them on like a glove.

I would tell you of my longing for more; more quality family time, more dates with my husband, more harmony in our home, more dedication to the Lord, more time management skills, more love for all of God’s children, more desire to serve and help and lift, more patience and calm, more self-discipline, more doing, more being, more living, more volunteering at school, more time reaching out to family and friends, more time for all the projects in my head, more money, more or better stuff (a new mattress, a bike trailer, a trampoline), more books read, more gratitude, more self-love & acceptance, more order, more smiling & laughing, more hair on my head, more beach, more playing with my kids, more energy.

And less; less fat on my body, less pain, less time wasted, less conflict and struggle, less yelling, less laundry, less need and want for things, less clutter, much much less clutter, less laundry, less mess, less concern for things that don’t matter, less frowning, less laundry.

I’d tell you how much I miss people. I miss old times. I miss old places. I miss travel. How I feel I’ve let people down, and let distance win. How I miss Switzerland and speaking French and hearing my children speak French. How it feels, like I knew it would, almost like it never happened, or it didn’t matter. That it was just a dream. How I miss the shape our lives had taken there, the order and simplicity we seemed to have arrived at. How I wonder about things & toy with regret. How, even though I know it would be an upstream swim, I still feel like I’ve failed because my children don’t know French, I wonder if I even do, and I don’t have enough contact with the people we love and left behind.

I’d post pictures. I'd share music, ideas, projects, hopes, outings, events.

I might share recipes.

I might even wax philosophical, or talk politics or religion…what? no, no, no. you know what they say about politics and religion! That’s gonna lose you readers real fast.
What readers?

In short, I guess I’d just try to share life. It’s wonder and joy and triumph: the mountain peaks with glorious views; and it’s disappointments and struggles and monotony: the difficult hikes it took (is taking) to get there.

I should probably just take someone’s advice and keep this all to myself, in a journal. But I guess I believe there is value in sharing our lives with others. We benefit from the shoulders offered to us when we struggle, from the pats on the back when we succeed, from others' insights & wisdom, and from offering those things to others.

I’d share all these things if I blogged. Maybe I will. Or most likely, the watered down version on Facebook and Instagram will have to do, and will be, no doubt, more than sufficient to satisfy any desire you may have to get a glimpse into my life.