“You own everything that happened to you. Tell your stories. If people wanted you to write warmly about them, they should have behaved better.”
— Anne Lamott
So, this is my blog.
It’s not a “mommy blog” (which I think is a bullshit way to lump together and minimize what people who happen to be living a woman’s existence have to say). It’s not always a happy blog. In fact, it can sometimes be a really heavy blog, a slogging goddamn-it-why-am-I-not-beyond-this-already blog. But I hope that it’s an inspiring blog.
And I promise it’s an honest blog. This is who I am. This is my story. It’s a little funky and a little raw.
For a long time I was content just posting things I wrote on Facebook to a discrete group of friends. I resisted “coming out.” I was scared – scared no one would even be remotely interested. (Writing about yourself and what you think really does require no small measure of narcissism.) And I was afraid of hurting people’s feelings. What if people I never intended to have read these posts read them?
I mean, what if, you know, my … mother reads these posts? The mother who tells me I don’t love her. And then gives me reasons not to. What would reading these do to her?
So I somewhat quietly launched this blog. I mean, I’m no professional blogger. There was no way to launch it but quietly. But people responded so viscerally – especially to Savor – more than 500 people I don’t know read that piece in the first week (thanks to others sharing it on Facebook). And when I saw that someone in Tierra del Fuego, Chile was checking it out, well I kind of threw up my hands and stayed up late creating a new Facebook page for the blog so it could reach a larger audience.
When I did, people freaked the fuck out. (By “people” I mean “people” who also were born to my mother.)
The shame was immediate and struck hard. Why? Why did you have to do this? Why do you insist on using your own name?
The old wild monkeys really let loose. Panic set in. By morning I was spinning in a Facebook “hide” and “block” frenzy. I deleted Why You Should Have Boys immediately (though I think it’s beautiful). But then one person “liked” it. And another person more. And right before I just shut the whole thing down, someone who I had never met had “liked” my new page.
That kind of shifted the whole shameful conversation rattling my brain.
You have something to say, it said instead. And people want to hear it.
This is my story, goddamn it. This is the life I have lived. This is true. It’s a love story, really. It’s the story of how I’ve learned to fall in love … with myself, my children, and my life.
I hope you like it. Because I sure do.