PSA

I’m sure I’m annoying those of you who already visited my new site, but for those of you who don’t read blogs on the weekend… Wheels on the Bus has moved.  From now on, you’ll find me at http://emilyrosenbaum.com .  And if you head over there this morning, you’ll find some good news.

In case you missed it

My blog has moved.  You can now find me at http://emilyrosenbaum.com .  C’mon over!

Movin’ on up

After more than three years of blogging here, these wheels are rolling.  Please visit my new site with my very own domain name.  Update your feeds and come along for the next part of the ride.

I know that only a complete moron posts a move message on Friday night, so I’ll post this again on Tuesday, when the internet opens back up for business.

Brave boy

He’s fine, thank you.  The surgery went smoothly, the adenoids are out, and the child is resting on the couch, watching Lassie and eating his second bowl of ice cream.

I’m supposed to keep him in the house for a week, which is fabulous in theory, except that he looked up after his first bowl of ice cream and said, “Mommy, I want to go outside by myself.”  If he’s up for going out ten minutes after we get home, what’s he going to be like by Wednesday?

How many times can he watch Lassie?

More to the point, how many times can his sister watch Lassie?

Please send chocolate.

Pieces parts

We’re off today to get Benjamin’s adenoids out.  I’ll be back around noon, and I’ll try to post an update.  But since all of you know this isn’t really a big deal, I suspect you’re a hell of a lot less nervous than he is.

I’ve been revising the book.  Does that surprise you?  My agent dumped me, but there are plenty of small presses out there.  I can pitch the damned thing myself.  My writing group gave phenomenal advice on a section that has plagued me for years, so I should be done revising and writing the pitch next week.  IAin’t nobody gonna keep me down.

Zach is off to his grandparents today.  We can’t wait to send him.  I love the child, really I do, but he has grown increasingly impossible.  The fact is, he didn’t make a lot of friends during the school year.  He has a few, but we’ve only been able to see them sporadically this summer.  The summer has been hard for him.  He had to transition to camp, and transitions are not his strong suit.  New kids, new place, new routine.  He snapped at me this week, “People always say summer vacation is so fun.  It’s NOT fun!”

“I know kiddo.  Is school fun?”

“Yes, school is fun.  Summer vacation is not!”

This is how we know he’s my child.  I wonder sometimes whether his father really contributed any genetic material.

That’s all for now.  I’m off to take my dude in for surgery.

Popping the question

When he was four, he wanted to know if my mother was dead.  I told him she was.

When he was four and two months, he wanted to know what she died of.  I told him that she got sick and her lungs stopped working.

When he was four and two months and one day, he wanted to know how old I had been.  I told him two.

When he was five, he wanted to know about my father.  I told him he lived far away.  But then he wanted to know about my stepmother, and eventually, after the questions became more and more probing, I told him the truth.  She wasn’t very nice to me.

“Why wasn’t she nice to you?”

“I guess she didn’t like me very much.”

“But why didn’t she like you very much?”

“I don’t know, sweetie.  I don’t know why someone wouldn’t like a child.”

He wants to know more about what she did, I think.  He doesn’t have the words to ask because he doesn’t even know the word “abuse.”  It is all so vague for him, and it’s hard for me to figure out what’s going on in that little head.

I sure as hell don’t want to tell him more than he’s asking.  He’s not asking to know that she beat me.  He shouldn’t even know that she hit me.  He’ll have sixty or seventy years of his life to understand the specifics of what happened to me as a kid; right now, it’s not necessary for him to know I slept naked on the hallway floor and ate my own vomit.

But I also don’t want to tell him less than he’s asking.  Kids left to figure shit out for themselves can imagine some pretty horrible stuff, although I guess he can’t imagine much that’s worse than what actually happened to me.  So, I wait for the questions and field them as they come.

Except when I don’t know the answer.

Because there is one question I’ve struggled with for years.  The same question that grown men ask me every single time they hear my story.  The question Zachary asked me the other day.

“Why didn’t your father help you?”

Why didn’t my father help me?  Why, indeed.  There are a couple of ways to go about answering this one, but “because he’s a narcissistic asshole” doesn’t really answer the question.  Plus, then I’d have to define narcissistic and asshole.

Instead, I went with, “I don’t really know.  I think maybe he just didn’t care that much.”

This threw Zach for a loop.  Having no experience with stepmothers, he can accept that some are bad.  But he has experiences with fathers.  In his experience, fathers care very much.

My husband thinks I answered wrong.  And maybe I did.  Unfortunately, my husband does not have any suggestions for better answers.  I think that’s because there aren’t any better answers.

How do I answer a four-year-old who wants to know why the woman on the cover of Time magazine has her nose cut off?  I mean, other than to wonder why the hell the grocery store put the magazine at precisely four-year-old height.    How do I answer when my children want to know about war and genocide and mental illness and homelessness?  I answer as honestly as I can, trying to help them understand there are injustices in the world that they can help to right.

But, when my almost-six-year-old wants to know why a father stands by and allows his children to brutalized, why my father did that, well, I just don’t know what to say.

Mr. Charming

Since we discovered that Benjamin does not have allergies and does have chronic sinusitis plus chronic infected adenoids, he has had four sinus infections.  In as many months.  We get him off antibiotics, and within two weeks, he is miserable again.  Crying, hitting, not sleeping.  Then, we get him back on antibiotics, and twenty-four hours later, he is Mr. Charming.

I took him in to the doctor on sinus infection number three.  “I think it’s time to see the ENT about his adenoids,” she said.

“I think so, too,” I replied.

I took him in to the ENT, who looked at his CAT scan.  “I think we need to take the adenoids out,” she said.

“I think so, too,” I replied.

Now, I’m not a big fan of CAT scans and surgery and general mucking about in a four-year-old’s body.  But I’m also not a big fan of my kid single-handedly creating SuperBugs because he’s rendered all of the antibiotics ineffective.  He’s been sporadically miserable for over two years, and we’ve always tried to correct the behavior.  Turns out, he was just pissed off because he was playing host to a colony of microscopic critters.

So, Friday it is.  They’ll be giving my kid anesthesia on Friday the thirteenth.  He’ll come home sore and not be allowed out for a week.  We’re shipping his brother off to his grandparents’ house for the week because I don’t need Zach pushing Ben’s buttons all week long.

Also because Zach just generally drives me bananas.

But then, maybe, just maybe, Mr. Charming can stick around a bit.

What’s seventy-two divided by twelve-and-a-half?

Well, then.

One day, I’m poking along, writing posts, hearing from no one except Coco and Painted Maypole, who are such staunch supporters that the sky might be falling before they fail to leave a comment.  The next day, I write a post about small blogs, ask for responses, and I hear from SEVENTY-TWO people.

OK, then.  Thank you.  I appreciate the response.  I want other small bloggers to be able to find yesterday’s post reassuring.  My point was – and if you read the comments yesterday, I think you’ll find it holds water – that the “big” bloggers are only big because other bloggers read them.  If you have a small blog, live it, love it.  There are people out there reading you who don’t read the big blogs but do read you.  That means that there is someone out there right now who reads you regularly but has never once read Dooce.  Howdya like them apples?

Now back to our regularly scheduled readership of twelve and a half people.

You will not be getting a post here today because I want you to click over to Babble and read my essay over there.  And there is a recipe attached!  Catherine will love that.

As, I am sure, will Painted Maypole and Coco.

From over here in the cheap seats

I am one of those crazy whackjobs who – when attending a conference – actually goes to sessions.

On Saturday, I went to a session called Where’s the Line of the Lie: Storytelling, Memoir, and Poetic License.  I went because I thought, “Hey!  What I write is memoir.  I tell stories.  This ought to be interesting.”  Well, it kinda was and it kinda wasn’t.  The panelists were good and funny and all of that, although it was weird that they chose Julie Marsh for the session, given that she kept saying she scrupulously avoids writing about the personal and sticks to the political or religion.  Don’t get me wrong, she was interesting, I’m just not sure why they chose someone who doesn’t write about her life for a memoir panel.

“Well, because she’s a popular blogger,” someone told me.

I heard a lot of this over the weekend – popular, A list, big… whatever the term, there was a line drawn between the famous bloggers and us unwashed masses.  It was like being in middle school all over again, except no one tried to cop a feel by brushing up against me in the hallway.  Mores the pity.

The conference did a nice job of creating space for a few smaller bloggers, but the first three sessions I attended were all paneled by Big Time Bloggers, despite the fact that they weren’t always the best choices.

Bear with me – there is a point here.

Then I went to a fantastic panel called “Little Fish in a Big Pond: Understanding, Accepting, and Loving Your Small Blog.”  I missed the first half hour because I was unconscious in my room, recovering from the hideous, hyena, fishwife of a woman, but when I arrived, the panel had already taken a turn.  People were eagerly sharing stories of how to improve blog stats by making people accidentally end up on your site or how to change your focus so more people will read you.

So, because I have a big fucking mouth, I stood up and said, “My blog is called Wheels on the Bus.  I get a lot of visits because of that title, but those people don’t stick around.  I’ve been blogging for three-and-a-half years, and I’m not a big blogger.  I could do giveaways and get sponsors and spend all day commenting on other people’s blogs so that they would come to my blog and maybe make myself bigger, but I’m not going to do that.  Yes, we’re little fish in the big pond of blogging, but blogging is a very little pond in a very big world.  I made a choice not to immerse my life so fully in it.  And sometimes it’s really hard for me because I’m a writer and I am not getting the response and there are times I am jealous of the bigger bloggers, but I’m not compromising my principles.”

OK, maybe I didn’t say it exactly like that.  But I basically said I am not going to try to sell people crap on my blog, even if it means I only have about twelve-and-a-half readers.

The next woman who stood up was awesome (if anyone knows who it was, please tell me).  What she said was that maybe some of us have small blogs because we’re busy throwing our kids birthday parties instead of staging birthday parties that we can blog about.  Whoever you are lady, you rock.

This was all in response to Nora, a panelist, who said, “Look, in this room, we all know who Dooce is.  She’s famous to us.  But we shouldn’t forget that there are millions of people who have no idea who the fuck she is.”  Maybe Nora didn’t say “fuck,” because she’s kinda classy, but I think everything sounds better with a “fuck” thrown in.

Nora also rocks.

I think blogging has changed an awful lot over the last few years.  Twitter and Facebook have taken over the conversations that used to be happening between all the small, personal blogs out there, and blogging has been commodified. Someone figured out how to make money out of it, and now the Big A List Popular bloggers are getting a lot of attention.  It started as a place for free exchange of ideas, and it ended up as a way to sell laundry detergent.

BUT, I think there is still space for us little people.  The ones who just want to use the internet for free speech, uncensored by the powers of the marketplace.  Blogging is not dead, but we are being made to think there is something horrible about being small.  I think maybe the awesome lady who commented about the birthday parties might have said that, too.

So, for all the little bloggers I found, I am going to do a little poll of my readers.  You may actually know who Dooce is, but I want to know if you know who The Bloggess is.  (This is not a diss on The Bloggess, who is eight kinds of cool mixed with mayo.)  Please, leave a comment on this post and answer the following two questions:

1)   Are you a part of the “blogging community”?  (In other words, do you read lots of blogs or blog yourself?  Or do you only read a couple of blogs?)

2)   Had you ever heard of The Bloggess prior to reading this post?

Please, even if you don’t usually comment, do so this time.  I really want to know.  And I really want the small bloggers who feel like they are in the shadow of bigger bloggers to know, too.

Notes from BlogHer

To the hideous hyena fishwife of a woman who stood in the hallway of the fourteenth floor of the Hilton at 5:08 this morning and banged on the wall shouting, “Shut the fuck up! People are trying to sleep!”

I have not been away from my kids for two years.  Lately, I get up every morning at 5 so I can write in peace on the dining room table.  Then, at 6:30, my husband and my daughter get up.  On alternate days, I run.  The other days, he goes to the gym.  I then spend my entire day in service to my children – wiping asses, cooking food, shuttling children between camp and friends houses and tae kwon do and the library.  I have Zachary read to me every day and do puzzles with Benjamin and let Lilah stick her head between my knees when I am on the toilet because she likes to watch the pee come out and then cheer for me.  When Ben’s tae kwon do master said he had to learn to count in Korean, I started teaching him to count in Korean, no easy feat given that I know no Korean and he just recently learned to count in English.

My kids are in bed by 8:30, and I try to be in bed by 9:00, but it never works because – even though my husband does the nighttime chores of garbage and wiping the counters and putting away the toy piecesparts – I usually have enough to do to keep me up so I don’t get to sleep till 9:30 or 10.

I do not watch TV.  I do not see friends.  I read two pages of a book a night because I have a fucking Ph.D. in literature and even if it takes me a year, I will read a book.

I came to BlogHer to see people and learn things, but mostly I came as an excuse to get the fuck away from my kids and my life for two days.  Two days when I could let loose, not be responsible to someone else, read eight pages of the book if I wanted to, talk to other adults, and sleep the fuck in.  Until 6:30 in the morning.  All I wanted?  Was to sleep in until 6:30 in the morning.

I am the people who were trying to sleep.

So, although I couldn’t go back to sleep, I hope you did.  Because today I am going to find out who you are.  Then, tonight, while you are asleep in your bed, I will scale the fourteen floors of the building, sneak into your room, stand over your bed, and count to ten in Korean at the top of my lungs.