“You should TOTALLY write a blog…. I’d read it!”
Well intentioned Facebook friends tell me this after I post some neurotic rant on how I fear that I am screwing up my son’s life or when the traffic to work was SO profoundly horrific that social media must be alerted. And I nod and remember how I was once a writer. And then life took over.
And I don’t want to offend bloggers out there, but there is a very large part of my brain that hears the word “blog” and it starts to stomp and kick and scream like a toddler. The word alone sounds like you have something phlegmy in the back of your throat.
It takes a lot for me to identify with what other people are putting out there on the Internet. Yet – once in a while I will read something and think “Hell yeah – I like this. I want to connect more with this. Maybe I can do the same for other people out there….?”
And then I stick a toe in the water, freak out that it’s too cold, and pull it out and wait another 3-5 years before I think about doing it again. But – in doing some recent soul searching, I discovered the one thing I miss doing more than anything else is writing.
So, I got the wordpress. I even shelled out a few bucks for a domain to seal the deal and force me to commit. And then the identity crisis overtakes me.
What the HELL do I “blog” about?
I do not have it in me to be a “mommy blogger”. I have one kid. (Not “ONLY” one kid – but maybe that can be a future ranting post). I love my son so much it can paralyze me at times, but I do not do overly cool things with him. We don’t do artsy, craftsy things where we make owls out of his baby teeth or some other crackhead thing like that. We don’t cook or bake together. I am completely inept in the kitchen and he hates cookies and cake (I know… right???)
I am not a glowy stay at home mom knock out who takes stunning Instagram pics of a day in the life of a mom. I work full time, which means by the time C. gets home from aftercare, he and I both put in 10-11 hour days. Hubby pulls even later hours so there is no such thing as family meals that I have lovingly crafted from the organic bok choy I grew in the garden. Multiple blog posts about my almost 9 year old in front of the TV playing video games and watching YouTube videos will probably get old fast. I don’t decorate. I am not an organizational guru, although I can stack laundry in a pile that truly defies gravity.
I can’t share ways to get your kids to eat healthier. I am at a complete loss there. As much as C. despises baked goods, he despises vegetables even more. Since we are a vegetarian family (oh – hey – I can write about that!!) I once snuck spinach into his smoothie and confessed to him after he drank it. Instead of him saying “Wow, mom – you were right! I didn’t taste the spinach so I guess you can add it to my limited food repertoire!” He shot me a look that could have seared the skin off my face and told me he can never trust me again. (He can’t. He watches me like a hawk in the kitchen now).
I am pretty much down the line mediocre in everything I do. I have a modicum level of fitness. I run – slowly. I work out when I have time but the muscles are buried beneath a layer of fat because I also love wine, chocolate, and cheese. I do yoga but not the kind of yoga you see in the stunning leggings and the one armed balances with legs going in every direction. I can kind of wobble on one leg if I’m on a roll that day. I am overdue for a mani-pedi and an eyebrow wax. I am not that 40-something with the 20-something body. I am pretty much your standard middle-aged suburban mom with a high pressured job who looks exhausted 99.99999% of the time. I guess I could blog about the various creative ways to best cover your muffin top but that could probably get kind of depressing and to be honest, I doubt I am even killing that on a daily basis.
OK – so obviously I am neurotic and self-deprecating. I overthink things and doubt myself and it just so happens that at the bottom of this deep dark hole, I answered my own question on “What do I blog about?”
I want to find myself. (Insert eye roll here).
But… I kinda do. And I don’t.
I want to find myself and yet I loathe that concept completely because no one ever “finds” themselves. They find stupid things that they preach to other people about and then those people avoid them because they are annoying and then the people who found themselves start thinking their friends and family are just jealous or unenlightened because they don’t like the “new them” – when they were never the new them. They were the old them who just got self-righteous and louder. And they still never EVER found themselves. Ever
So I don’t want to find myself like that.
I just want to look into the stuff that I do, and figure out what the point is. What is the point of doing yoga? Because I do it everyday. What is the point of reading Buddhist text? Because I have a ton of it in my home (hubby identifies as Buddhist. I do not know what I identify with). What is this “happiness” thing and how does it apply to me?
Can I find myself and still care about my makeup and shoes? Can I covet the handbag I probably will never afford but Instagram about from time to time?
Can I find myself without being douchey and walking around with that self-centered far off gaze like I am constantly in meditational ecstasy? Can I still curse like a construction worker? Because I curse like a construction worker. (More than my hubby – who IS in construction).
I need to let go of one thing: worrying if anyone will read this. I cannot dip a toe in and wait for the water to be warm enough. I need to freefall the SHIT out of this thing and hopefully I will land upon the reason I am doing this and not turn into an asshole. I cannot worry about if I am doing it right.
I just need to do it.
But who am I kidding? I haven’t even posted this yet. And I am already worried.