Rambling thoughts and what ifs...

I figured by now, I'd have figured out the whole blog thing. I have blogs I read on a regular basis, like daily or weekly. I regularly comment on some. I even have a bunch that I regularly read on my blog page.
I have 1 person that follows my blog. And 1 or 2 that have actually commented on it. Not that I really mind so much, because it's more for me that I write, not others. Hubby doesn't read it, nor does any of my family, or friends, because I've chosen not to tell very many people that I blog. Hubby knows, but has so far not chosen to read my blog. Mostly because he knows how I am about things like that. Here's a little known fact: I've had poems published in a couple of anthologies. Used to write all the time. Wrote a good 2 or 3 dozen poems over the course of 2-3yrs. Stopped writing after I met hubby and got married. Just seemed at the time like there wasn't anything else to write about. I really thought about writing again, but can't seem to get back in the groove of things. It just seems like most of what I wrote before just flowed from my fingers to the paper. Now it actually takes work just to write out a few sentences, and even then they don't seem to flow or even make sense some days.
Like a colossal writers block. And it sucks. I used to love writing, it was how I spent most of my teen years. I thought writing was something special that I was good at. And then came the kids, and there was no time to write. No time to think. To dream. To anything.
I even thought for a time that I might write a book. I mean heck, if Jenny McCarthy can multi-task, so can I right? Apparently not. Can't seem to string a sentence together that doesn't make me feel like my IQ might drop 30 points just to read it.
I want to write about how having 2 boys with autism feels. How it feels to have other kids that need my attention. How my day never ends. How terrified I am that my youngest may never live on his own. But when I try, it just seems to come out sounding fake and hollow. Dull and unimaginative. Boring.
My little triumphs are nothing to the real world. Most people wouldn't be able to understand where I'm coming from, why little things excite me. Why an almost 8yo using the potty is awesome. I just can't find the words to describe what I'm seeing, feeling, and dealing with at any given time. I just don't know how to do it. I want to tell my kids' story, and let other people know that it's not all sunshine and roses. It's hard work. It makes me cry or want to most days. The hardest is seeing my son look at something that kids way younger than him are doing, and still not being able to make sense of it. Seeing other kids hurt his feelings because they don't understand why he is the way he is.
Sometimes I blame myself. If I hadn't been in denial, had gotten him evaluated earlier. If I hadn't allowed him to do any number of things, maybe things would be different. Maybe it's bad genetics, bad parenting, bad vaccines. The what ifs drive me nuts.
The hardest day was when they diagnosed him as mentally retarded. Not when they said autism. Autism I can deal with. But brain damage, mental retardation, that I'm not sure how to deal with. What to do, how to do it. I just can't wrap my mind around it. It hurts just to think of it. It makes me wonder what caused it. Was it when he fell off the bed? Or fell at the park? Or was it before that? When he had his surgery at 4 months? Thats the part that kills me inside. The whole what caused it, was it something I did or didn't do? Could I have prevented it?
I guess that's where I stand now. Getting past the what ifs and moving on to the what nows. That's all for now. I'm sure this will make more sense in the morning, or maybe never.