Yesterday was my two-year blogoversary, and if I have earned anything in the past 24 months, it is that one should not bother to post anything on Memorial Day, because there are only three people and a crocus reading blogs on the Monday of a holiday weekend. Perforce, I have saved this post for today, when someone might actually see it.
I think we can safely label this a mommy blog, given the amount of time I have devoted to writing about excrement – it won’t come, it won’t go in the toilet, it comes to one child while another is having a tantrum and I am feeding the third, and on and on and on. Poop is a giant part of my life right now – Benjamin needs less fruit and more in the form of bananas; Lilah is not allowed to have any bananas and needs regular dosings of spinach and prune juice; how the hell does Zach manage to poop at all, given that he eats nothing but bread; and why is my husband always away from home when all three children do it at the same time?
There is more to my mothering than wiping asses, of course. I had to interrupt writing this post to go tend to the kidney beans I was cooking on the stove, because Benjamin loves them there kidney beans and I am trying to cut us back on canned goods (BPA), processed foods (too much soy), sugar (because it is crazy making), and salt (duh). Oh, and meat. Of course, considering the aforementioned poop, perhaps I should also be cutting Benjamin back on beans.
However, the reason I blog is that, in addition to being very patient with my need to tell innumerable stories about my children, this is the place where people recognize me as a person beyond my kids. A year ago, I posted that I was beginning to feel like a writer. Now, I feel less like one. The economy has tanked, and the book isn’t getting placed anytime soon. I did have two articles accepted last week, a tiny start in the scaffolding I will need to construct to scale the side of the publishing world and drop my manuscript in from the top-story window. Nonetheless, in most of my life, I feel like a sham claiming to be a writer. Y’all help me retain a shred of that delusion, for which I should either thank you or send you a bill for the anti-hallucinatory drugs I clearly need.
Twitter annoyed me, Facebook is a nice way to stay in touch with friends, my television sits dormant when my husband is out of town except for a daily episode of The Wonder Pets, I am still trying to figure out how to use my iphone for musical purposes, and my children have no toys that light up or make sounds. (We like to make the kids do the playing.) Hell, I don’t even turn the lights on in my house or use the dryer (we love in Southern California; that’s what sunshine is for). I’m just one sledgehammer away from being a Luddite. But, blogging? Blogging sustains me and helps me hold onto my identity.
And so I thank you, once again, for bearing with me and sticking around, even though I never comment as much as I would like on your blogs. I thank you for holding my hand through my excruciating parenting moments. I thank you for reading my twelve gazillion posts on Proposition 8, even though you live in Massachusetts. I thank you for seeing me as a person, not just a set of lactating mammary glands and a minivan.
As my blogoversary gift, please leave a comment today, even if you never have or are not the commenting type. Tell me something interesting about you: maybe the title of your favorite book, which baseball team you root for, the greatest television theme song, or the best use for five frozen jars of kidney beans. Or just say “hi.”
Let’s do it again next year.