Bloggy McBlogface: An Origin Story
Let’s begin with the reference. If you were not blessed with the news back in 2016 of Britain's newest polar research vessel, Boaty McBoatface, then please let me guide you to this two minute internet rabbit hole.
Boaty McBoatface is one of those stories that lives rent free in my brain and occasionally Lucas and I will refer to one another as such in a slightly loving, slightly disparaging way. All is fair in love and war.
Well back in October when I began to see publishing two, even three entries a week would in no way be sustainable, I pressed my head down to see how many “backlog” pieces I could save for when the dryer writing weeks would come. It was intense and I existed on diminishing sleep and self-willed discipline. When I should have been running laundry, vacuuming, prepping dinner, I was instead hunched over my laptop brainstorming, writing, editing pieces. One night, I stayed up late editing a piece (that most likely will never see the light of day) and the desire to keep writing was so obnoxious and impulsive I stood up, threw down the laptop, and crawled into bed. I lay awake, truly annoyed and ashamed over the writing troll I was slowly morphing into. I decided then I had earned the nickname Bloggy McBlogface.
The title is both endearing and wholly despairing which is perfect because it will always have me don a humble cap.
The next morning I decided if I wanted to write, specifically to a public space like the blog, I needed more balance and better boundaries. This may all seem wild and silly since there are not a lot of published pieces but I am a woman of many hats. Some are more demanding than others at the moment. Like mothering two toddlers who love the fully stocked knife block and scaling anything taller than 7 feet. It has taken some time to reset and establish what Bloggy McBlogface will be doing here. I ran a quick poll in my stories over on Instagram the other day and the clear winner was, you all want to hear more about everyday life. Which makes absolute sense in the larger narrative of what the Cobblestone Road is recording. So that’s what McBlogface will try to do more of. With that we will begin with the Flea Plague of 2022. May our couch, rugs and mattresses Rest In Peace.
I have alluded a little on IG about the great debacle we have been in but it’s been both too overwhelming and embarrassing at times to share. No one wants to admit they're losing a war of attrition to pests. Last spring we brought in a third cat, who came from our neighbors’ cat. Early in the pandemic a tiny tabby showed up at our back door. She wasn’t wearing a collar and she was so little we thought she was a stray and started leaving out food. Well she very much had owners who asked us to stop feeding their cat, but Kissa still came by daily for some love. Eventually she became pregnant and it felt right, almost necessary to take one of the kittens in. Well Kissa and the kittens had fleas and even though the kitten was bathed before being re-homed, lessons have since been learned.
The sweet and terrible Odin, who brought the Flea Plague of 2022 upon our home.
Around the same time we were letting our two cats outside for short stints while the boys were playing or we were working in the garden. Without realizing it, our house was slowly becoming the most hospitable house on the block for flea partying and procreation. I began to see things were amiss by mid-summer and by that time we were at stage 4 out of 5 on infestation levels. We began giving the cats medicine, doing the flea baths, washing any and all fabric the cats came in contact with and we’re vacuuming the rugs and carpets.
August rolled into September, to October and by November we were still losing the battle. In fact infestation levels somehow were worse, specifically on the cats. We finally isolated the cats to one area of the house and started the Great “Delousing” of 2022… again. It has been a pricey lesson both in time and finances. It has made me want to burn the house to the ground more than once. On more than one occasion I have felt anger with myself after finding bites on Hudson’s body while helping him get dressed in the mornings. It’s been invasive and pervasive to the point that any itch on the skin at night makes me throw on the lights to see if it’s a flea. Lucas jokes, sadly it’s true, I have become paranoid at the site of any dark speck on our sheets or clothing.
The day we took the old rug and couch to the dump. Hudson found the whole thing terribly exciting and made a “picnic” on the ground.
The truth is I wasn’t writing because I have slowly been going mad in a flea funhouse. A part of me really wants to end there because that’s honestly where I’ve been sitting for six months and rushing to the “good news” feels cheap. But despite all the, let’s call it what it is, inconveniences… there has been fruit.
To begin with, Lucas and I had to relocate the cats to our garage so we could get a handle on the house. This meant we needed to deep clean the entire garage first which had slowly deteriorated into something resembling Gollum’s Cave. Boxes that had barely been touched since our move were finally sorted through and quickly the cleaning turned into an attic-garage reorg party. We vacuumed and swept everything from the floors to the rafters in the garage…and then we flea bombed the place, more than once. As for the house, I created a cleaning system for laundry, vacuuming, sweeping, and organizing. After a month of this, I was amazed fleas had become my cleaning motivator life hack however we were still occasionally finding them… and here lies the real fruit.
I remembered a life lesson I experienced towards the end of high school, but forgot because I’m human and that’s what we do. I went through a season of great longing and waiting, I wanted to be rid of where I was living, away from everything that felt dead or dying and I wanted to move away as fast as possible. I had to wait though. I had to wait for school and summer to end and for fall to come and for college to start. And once I moved to Seattle, all the waiting and longing I thought would vanish still existed because it wasn’t California that hurt, it was me.
Our suffering is sometimes circumstantial, sure. But suffering is a part of existence and so we can learn to suffer well. This is something I am still learning to practice. Fleas are an inconvenience that brought on suffering in my heart and it was all an invitation to dig deeper. Instead of running to self-pity (pride) or anger (also pride) or even manic cleaning (law and again pride), I was being invited to pray. To go to God and be present with him, because His presence is the only place to find unadulterated peace. Sure, I can ask God to help me scourge the house of fleas. He can do it and He is more than willing. Yet, would I be spending as much time with Him in prayer if he answered my flea prayers? Probably not. I’m being honest. How sad is that? I found my praying would always begin with self-petitioning, “Help Me.” But as I prayed, it would turn to prayers for other people, other communities, countries. The prayers became more specific and turned to thanksgiving and awe over what has already been done, how He has already responded, what He has created. Prayer turns your heart around, it helps you stop looking in the mirror. Which, I find, is always the greatest cure to self-objected suffering.
God sometimes lets fleas and much worse happen, he allows true suffering to exist. It is not out of malice or poor judgment, shortcomings of his love. On the contrary it is His very love that allows us to wander, He only pines and waits for us to run to Him with our suffering hearts.
A bit heavy but Bloggy McBlogface is going to keep it real and these have been my daily musings for the past few months, fleas will do it to you. On that note, I must be off and go to bed so I can wake up with half a brain to take care of the 18 month old who caught a raging stomach bug. I am again under a mass of laundry and feeling some self-pity. It’s helpful to see the pile as an invitation now.
