My grandmother crocheted me a bunny hat for Halloween when I was little. And I had a full costume sewn to go along with it, cotton tail and all. I loved that costume. I loved that hat. And a few years back my mother found the hat and brought it down for me. Since then it has lived comfortably along side Spiderman and various pirate accessories in our costume box.
But I found a recent use for my old bunny hat the other day. It seems that my four year old buys into eating his carrots when he makes believes he’s a bunny. Maybe its a variety of little boy method acting. Whatever it is, it works.
And so here he is. Convincing himself that carrots are a fabulous idea. For a bunny.
Of course he then insisted I be a silly mommy and try on my old bunny hat. Wonderful. So I suppose I have to eat my carrots now too.
Update: So when I read this post 24 hours after I wrote it, I decided I should have titled this “My Bleeding Heart, Anti-hate, Tempter Tantrum”. Not that the points I make are any less valid (because I’m quite proud of my bleeding heart). But sometimes you just have to yell it out right?
*Cleansing breath* and hoping for positivity.
*****
This is one of those posts where I’m not sure if I want to hit the publish button. And I’m not even two sentences in. But I know. The words are up in my head daring to jump out onto this post.
I know I haven’t shared my opinions on anything specifically political recently. Why?
… searching for an answer…
Things are tough out there. Nothing is easy. Which isn’t what discourages me so much. It’s how horrible people have become as a result. And when I get so discouraged and so sad about it, I quiet down. Not so constructive, huh?
Yeah. I know.
But as of this moment right now, recently set off by someone’s comments in passing, I’ve kind of had it.
So I’m just going to say it.
Stop. Stop hating our President because he isn’t what you’re used to. I don’t care how mad you are a democrat was elected. I don’t care what you want to believe. He is American. He is Christian. His middle name is also Hussein. And he’s bi-racial. Stop stop stop letting that freak you out so frigging much.
Stop deciding a person of another faith is less American. Stop hating differences. Stop deciding where someone can worship. Stop pigeon holing, stop assuming, stop blaming 9/11 on anyone with a head covering. Stop deciding that people who speak another language are second class citizens.
Stop buying the horse pucky being shoveled out to you thanks to all those Glenn Becky entertainers posing as legitimate news resources. They make it ok to fear otherness. They tell you information that is not true. They tell you this and you think its the nightly news. Its not. It warped and misinterpreted and worked to sound exciting and controversial so that you turn on that show. And they get paid a lot of money for promoting news-looking information that is simply wrong. Don’t be so easily swayed. (That goes for liberal news pundits too. I’m well aware.)
Don’t settle into your comfortable homes and hope that people just like you move in next door and if they don’t well then Obama wins and what a horrible President he is. Stop it.
Stop forgetting to think for yourself. Challenge yourself with different. Make yourself learn more. Read and listen and open your mind and heart to lots and lots of resources. Question everything. Come to your own conclusions.
Stop blaming. Stop promoting hateful language and feeling smug because some new party says its ok and then do nothing – NOTHING – to make anything better at all. Be constructive.
Be yourself. Don’t fall in line with what the majority thinks just because its easier to agree than disagree. Celebrate new and interesting differences.
I don’t know best but neither do you. Stop yelling at people to get off your lawn and start working together. Stop allowing fear and misinformation to divide and conquer.
Its not his fault, or hers, or theirs. It’s ours. It’s time to take some responsibility.
….so.
I’m running out of momentum now. I’m not even sure this is worth posting after all. I got it out of my system. But I have to wonder if it even matters anyway. If those who feel irked by what I write will just turn their noses, call me wrong and go back to what they were doing all along anyway. If they even read it at all. And those that agree will just agree.
So I remain discouraged. Reading unbelievable news headlines, trying to find something constructive somewhere and hoping hoping hoping this hate begins to abate somehow.
I still haven’t decided if I want to click publish. But I suppose you’ll know if decide to bother.
So I thought I would fill you in on some things I’ve been working on outside of posting here.
Yes, I do things other than just parent and unravel it all here for your reading pleasure. Yes, I can multi-task. Yes, it might mean I slack here now and then.
No, it most certainly does NOT mean I love you any less.
So here’s whats up.
(And forgive me if this comes across a little pluggy. Just sharing what I’m doing. Yeah I’m paid at these places but a little something in exchange of some writing is a good thing, right?)
Dr. Smith’s Ointment
So sure, I haven’t had a baby in diapers for just over a year (cue frantic cheering and hoorays heard for miles around…). Nevertheless, I was approached by a fantastic company called Dr. Smith’s Ointment for a little writing gig. What is this company about? A few decades back, a very nice man named Dr. Forest M. Smith saw a need for an effective diaper cream. He created his own product and shared it with his patients. Dr. Smith’s Ointment has now evolved into a family-friendly homegrown company based in San Antonio, Texas. The team of folks working there are committed to connecting with parents and reaching out via their blog and social media. That’s where I stepped in along with a small group of other moms who were hired to share their parenting tips and start a dialogue with their readers.
And who else will be on their site sharing parenting tips? None other than Heloise herself! I’m totally NOT kidding about this either.
So if you check out their site or “like” them on facebook, you’ll be hearing more from me over there. But I wouldn’t hate on you if you went over there primarily for Heloise. I get it. I do. She kind of knows… well, everything.
Savvy Source Savings and Scholarships
You all probably know I am the Tampa City Editor for Savvy Source. Recently they’ve started up a new program over there called Savvy Savings and Scholarships. So what is that exactly? Well it’s going to work a little bit like “groupon”. If you sign up (and it’s free to do so), Savvy Source will send you updates about local family spots with discounts from 50-90% off memberships or admission.
As a blogger, I actually earn a teeny percentage of those who sign up under me. If you are a blogger, you can join the fun and earn too. Just sign up here.
I’ve been checking in with local Moms Clubs, etc. to share this info. but please feel free to share it on your own. Some pretty amazing savings are anticipated not only in Tampa but in cities all over the country.
Other Stuff
And now that I have more time to myself, I am reaching out to folks for more freelance writing projects. And they are slowly trickling in which thrills me to NO end.
(Again, cue frantic cheering and hoorays heard for miles around…)
Because, finally, I am contributing a little more around here (apart from, yes, the invaluable gift of parenting, blah blah blah…). If it’s the equivalent of a trip to Publix or tank of gas at a time, so be it. But I am doing something, dammit.
Ok well, I hope you enjoyed this bit of chitter-chatter and blatant plug fun. See you later here, there and a little bit of everywhere.
Even larger than life and clocking in at the 97th percentile for his size, my sweet 4 year old isn’t exactly a risk taker. Sure, sure, he’ll jump on my couches until I holler at him not to. But when he finally does get off the couch, he doesn’t jump off – he sits carefully and then stands before running off to cause havoc elsewhere.
He doesn’t like fast slides. He doesn’t jump from most heights. He never wants me to push him too high on the swing. And he certainly won’t get on any semi-fast rides at Busch Gardens.
No way.
He thinks the hill we drive up and down on the drive home from school is a roller coaster. I’m not joking. He even puts his hands up and yells “Weeeeeeeee!!!!!….” So thrilling. Clearly.
My wild child.
So when I signed him up for gymnastics, I assumed this would be a challenge for him. He would have to jump off things. He would have to tumble and feel a little rush of adrenaline and trust that he was safe. He would have to consider the risks of falling and get past them. And when he saw the facility, he was excited to do it. But when I saw the height he’d have to jump off or the slide he would need to go down, I wasn’t so sure.
Yeah, well, with me locked up on an observation deck, behind a glass pane – he did it. He did it fearlessly. He did it proudly. He did without any of my coaxing at all.
I was shocked. And proud. So proud.
And then later introspective.
What is with that? What is with my kids not doing things for me? What is with their nerves and demands that they can’t do it, no way, and that was final.
And then doing it for someone else?
It was his first teacher who finally sealed the deal with potty training. Not me.
It was his father who finally got him to put his face in the water and keep it there. Not me.
It was this gymnastic teacher, who he knew for 15 minutes, who got him to jump off a big red square and balance himself high up on a bar with his arms locked. Not me.
No way.
And it is moments like these which remind me of the importance, the sheer significance, the enormous value other adults, teachers and family members have on my children’s lives.
Because here’s a news flash: No matter how much I think I know best as their mother, I can NOT teach them everything. Not by myself.
No way.
They respond differently to other adults. They have different expectations of themselves. They become different kids with other people. I am their mother and they can be my little babies when they are with me. I am their safe place. Its ok to show vulnerability with me. But for new people, interesting people, different people, challenging people – my children see something new. And they suddenly expect greatness from themselves.
I can love them so completely and entirely – but I can’t fulfill their learning to it’s entirety.
No way.
And I know this might be very obvious to most readers. I know this is a naive realisation. And if its any comfort, its not the first time I’ve realized this. But its just another reminder to let them go. Shove them out of that nest and let them fall and fall and be a little scared and even if I don’t think they will be brave enough to land on their feet, everyone else does. And they do. And I am left amazed once again.
I adore and thank every teacher, adult, coach and family member who has more confidence in my children than I do. You are changing my children. You are making them more than I could ever make them.
Thank you.
Mothering is a mind-blowing experience. Kind of like that hill I drive up and down on the way home from school. Weeeeeee!!!!!!
But will I be any less surprised the next time my children do something for another adult with confidence and flair – something that they swore they could never do, would never ever do, for me?
My four year old left for his first full day of Pre-K today. And my seven year old is already on day three of second grade.
But today is my first day, at home, without my children. No kids, people. No kids until 2:30 in the afternoon!
What to do with myself.
*Silence*
It’s so quiet. It felt great at first. And then, pretty damn lonely too. No noise? …Does not compute.
I can hear the cat snoring on my bed in the other room.
It’s so very quiet.
But there is a strange pang within that I am trying to come to grips with.
No, it’s not a weepy, “oh I miss my boys” pang. It should be, right? I know. So throw in a side of guilt. I SHOULD miss them. And of course I do. But I’m ok with this moment of their new found independence. How am I so calm? Well, my wonderful kids did a fine job over these last few days of summer of making SURE I wouldn’t miss them too much. They did what they could to get under my skin just enough so that I would simply smile and wave, rather than weep and sob, as my husband’s car pulled out of the drive way. They’re thoughtful kids like that. And I love them so.
(And they were so damn ready for school. With beaming grins they practically whooped and hollered as they climbed into the car. How can I not feel happy and at peace about that?)
No there is another strange non-weepy pang within that I am trying to tease apart and figure out.
I think it does partly have to do with guilt. But really it’s this feeling that I need to be doing something productive with myself.
I have all of this time here. And it’s quiet enough to actually think. And nothing is getting any messier. I have the day at my finger tips. Most sane women would throw the laundry in the air, grab that box of bon-bons and dive into a whole round of soaps, dammit. After seven years of wiping asses and making sandwiches and ducking plastic toys – a little relax time is well deserved, right?
*wringing my hands*
I can’t quite get there.
You see for so long I have dropped any and all expectations of myself and my productivity to an all time low. If I can get myself showered and clothed well then YAY for me. Quiet time in the bathroom? It’s a lot to ask but weeee, its a nice bonus when it happens!
But now I can spend as much quiet time in or out of the bathroom as I’d like. At least until 2:30pm. Every other day.
But you see, I feel obligated to get my ass in gear. To DO something CONSTRUCTIVE already. Maybe something that earns money? Posts? Follow ups? Maybe start being more aggressive about ways I can pimp myself for some fabulous, oh so sought after writing cash?
*drumming fingers*
I’m still figuring that all out.
Or maybe actually get this place cleaned up for once? Laundry in its place. Dishes done BEFORE dinner. Oh, plan and MAKE dinner AHEAD of time! Clean out my closet. Change that damned kitty litter.
Or maybe I can finally be that mom who makes muffins and cookies and has them ready when they get home! And maybe I can be that mom who is calm and loving because I’ve HAD my “ME” time for the day. I can feel refreshed and ready to *bing* (cue cheery, June Cleaver smile) be that wonderful mom I swore I could be before I got knocked up.
What to do.
I can’t just do nothing anymore. I can’t just wallow in time to myself. My husband works his butt off all day, everyday (weekends too, I swear) all for us. SITTING AROUND just doesn’t seem… right.
But it’s weird too, you know? Just weird. Weird for me to prioritize my schedule the way I want to without any distractions from 8:00am – 2:30pm three times a week.
(That may not seem like that much time but, my friends, it’s a lifetime to me… a lifetime I tell you!)
So what have I done today so far? I have been productive but its been all about catch up and follow up and just doing things I should have had done days or weeks ago.
I didn’t even do the bills.
I didn’t make those muffins either.
And it’s 1:30pm.
Maybe I can squeeze those muffins in right now.
This new time to myself world is a strange, odd, unfamiliar transition for me. But I had better get used to it. Whether I make myself super useful or put myself first in whatever way – my kids are going to be spending more and more time away from me.
(Oh that weepy stuff WILL catch up with me, don’t you worry about that.)
Next year they will be in school all day, every day. Then it’s middle school and sleep overs. And then high school and driving. And then college.
My eldest is ONLY ten years away from COLLEGE.
Time to get my ass in gear and figure out what the hell to do with my time. Time to finally establish myself as a useful human being, capable and ready to make my mark on this universe in so many other ways than parenting.
While looking for some old toys for my kids to play with up in the attic of my family’s Cape cottage, I found a fantastic back to school treasure. I found my old third grade book bag. But what makes this bag so unique? Well it’s a book bag from the American School of Mogadishu. As in Mogadishu, Somalia – which is where I lived for almost two years as a child.
I bet its one of the only one of its kind left.
And I would bet the school where I spent so much time is no longer standing either.
My father laughed when he saw it. It’s a crazy thing to look at now. The American School of Mogadishu. As if it was the most normal thing in the whole world. And to me, as an eight year old, it was. I told my father I actually missed Somalia and would love to go back someday. He looked at me like I was insane. And I looked at him like he was insane – HE is the one that brought my family over there in the first place. But nevertheless, Somalia was my adopted home for two years of my childhood.
Like any school, we had a playground. There were swings and big iron monkey bars where I spent most recesses, preferably hanging upside down, gazing out at the orange sand covering the grounds and the dry brush and acacia trees beyond that.
My classroom was like any classroom but with a cement floor and glass louvered windows on one wall. I practiced cursive, learned fractions and read about the nomads in social studies.
Our library was a cool reprieve. We were read “The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe” during circle time. And I would sneak off to read on my own. It was there where I learned to love to read. I think I must have checked out every donated Nancy Drew book they had at least twice.
I brought my lunch to school along with my water – which had been boiled and filtered to make it safe enough to drink. And like any other American kid, I brought peanut butter and jelly to school too. Granted that was easy to ship over and store. Our house had an entire air conditioned store room filled with canned, jarred and powdered foods. And all the Christmas candy was hidden far up on a distant shelf. My brother and I considered sneaking it down on many occasions. So we didn’t care how stale it was once we found it buried at the bottom of our stockings months later.
I thought it was cool that I didn’t have to walk to school. But I didn’t think it was cool that I went to school Tuesday through Saturday. Who goes to school Saturday? The traditional American schedule was changed to match the Islamic calendar. And we also went to school from 7am – 1pm. Because it was too damn hot to be out and about after 1pm.
I didn’t use the bathroom that often. I had a bad experience with a wasp hive nested under the toilet seat. I got away unscathed but my best friend ran out of there screaming once when a rat swam up the toilet to say hello. So I preferred to just hold it.
Once the sun had a set a bit, my brother and I would climb up the wall around our house and sit. We would watch herds of goats and sometimes camels go by. We waved at the kids. My brother knew some Arabic. I did not. Sometimes we would jump off the wall and run down the dusty road to find a local tea house. We’d duck inside and be given sweet, creamy tea made by a Somali child’s mother. It was delicious. Or other times we would jump off the wall and head towards my friend’s house who had lots of Barbie stuff. She also had a Dik-dik in her yard – which was very cool.
We heard the call to prayer five times a day. It was extraordinarily comforting. In the distance. Like a song. The world would stop. And we would watch. And wait.
I had a wallet with Mecca on it, I thought it was so cool, I felt so grown-up using it. I found that in the attic too this summer.
I also discovered rock music in Somalia. An unlikely place it would seem. But thanks to a crew of totally rad 8th graders and a tape deck left next to a pool at the local American compound, Joan Jett declared that she, indeed, loved Rock and Roll. And she sung also about Crimson and Clover. Over and over. So I decided I loved Rock and Roll too. And Joan Jett and the Blackhearts. Poolside. In Mogadishu. Nothing better.
A few times my mother would take me to the market for fresh food. We would have to look carefully. We never went to the meat section. I saw the carpet of flies before it lifted to reveal what meat they had. Apart from fish, we stayed vegetarian most of the time. But I still managed to catch a decent case of dysentery. I think most kids did.
I didn’t have a concept of how safe we were – or not. Somalia was at war with Ethiopia at the time. I remember hiding under the stairs when mortars would fly into town. It never felt close. I was never too worried. But the Somali people I knew protected and cared for me. So tall, beautiful, flashing smiles, kind and patient.
Once in a village far from Mogadishu, I was surrounded by so many children touching my hair. I didn’t understand. The translator said they had never seen blond hair before. Oh. Cool. No big deal.
As my father says, “Those were the good days of Mogadishu”. Good days. Even at eight I understood the depth of poverty there. Of all the places we lived, I never saw anything like what I saw in Somalia. Distended bellies, hunger, disease, flies, drought, muddy wells, nothing.
A woman tried to pass her baby through our car window once. She thought he would have a better life with us. With a house and electricity and an air conditioned store room filled with food, and clean, filtered water – he would have. My mother never forgot that little boy and used to wonder if she should have taken him. She also wondered if he was still alive.
So my children are heading back to school now. I am packing up their Target bought book bags and sending them to school with sandwiches, cheese-its and juice boxes. Their daily routine is as normal for them as mine was in third grade. Relatively speaking, and in the mind of a child, neither seems more extraordinary than the other.
I promised a second BlogHer post. You know the one where I tell all of you what I learned there? So I think I’ll start by sharing the questions that I had rattling around in my brain when I arrived. Not that there are clean answers to anything. But understanding the question is the only way to figure out an answer, right?
So here we go.
What am I doing here?
Can I really justify being at this fancy shmancy blogging conference?
Is blogging just a hobby or a real professional gig?
Can bloggers who write (rather than strictly review) succeed as writers? And I mean as real, legitimate writers?
How are bloggers really perceived by the outside world? Are they considered writers? Or as people who just write their opinions about products and what their kid just did in his pants?
How much skill is involved to succeed as a writer? Or is it more about persistence? Or luck? Or perception?
How much change can a blogger affect by writing? Is writing blog posts about something you feel passionate about enough? Or should you practice what you write more often, so to speak.
Do companies ever want to engage with bloggers because of their writing? Or do they want us for our readership? Or both?
How much do bloggers need to brand themselves? Is branding yourself the only way to create a perception that you are kind of a big deal? Does the writing ever speak for itself?
Does blogging spoil a writer? Is posting everything she thinks a bad idea (rather than work on an idea, expand on it, edit it, perfect it and submit it to something real)?
If a blog post falls in the forest, does it make any noise if no one is there to hear it? In other words, is blogging ultimately about readership and outreach?
Can bloggers succeed without being their own PR and legal rep? Or will we all be taken advantage of and wind up blogging for pennies in dingy basements never to see the light of a real, true, “I can pay my bills now” paycheck?
Does blogging ever give you enough return on your investment? Is it worth all of the hard work?
Which leads me back to my first question: what am I doing here?
BlogHer had every assortment of panel to sit in on and learn from. And so many amazing people were crammed into those rooms to attempt to answer some of these questions. Conversations were had in hallways, over meals at outdoor cafes, while recharging laptops, rumbling through town in taxis, up in hotel rooms sprawled out on beds and on top of cheeseburger shaped furniture.
Were my questions answered?
Um. Well. Here are the conclusions I’ve come to. For what they’re worth.
Blogging can be just a hobby. But it can definitely work to your advantage in your profession, whatever that might be. It’s up to you.
No one will hand you a writing career on a silver platter, no matter how many posts a week you crank out.
Blogging for and about stuff is most certainly not the same as blogging for the sake of writing. But both are blogging. And that’s ok.
Yes, perception (yours, your reader’s, the non blogging world’s) absolutely matters.
Writers get better by writing. So keep writing. Where ever, whenever. Writers also get better by reading so don’t forget to read and connect with other writers.
Companies really really like your readership. But. They might like the magic you write to make that readership come to you in the first place too. And they hope you can spin a spell about their stuff with your words. That is valuable. If you want it to be.
The number of comments or size of your readership is most certainly not an accurate reflection on the quality of your writing. At least that’s what they keep telling me.
Bloggers CAN affect change just by writing. They really, truly, without a doubt can. (And I adore all the women who tackled me to say so after I asked that question at a panel.)
Decide what you want from blogging. Then decide if pushing your own “brand” will then get you what you want. Bloggers blog for many different reasons so how you approach blogging does not need to be the same.
People should read your posts and hear your voice. Because blogging is not just about your writing but most importantly about conversations, connecting and reaching out to an important community.
Yes blogging is worth it for the friendship, the growth, the self-evaluation, the support, for so so much we just can’t put a price tag on. But is it worth it for the money? Um. No.
Yes writers can make money writing. Or so I hear.
So what am I doing here?
My blog is my home. It is my most comfy chair, with my most comfy blanket thrown over top, with a cup of cocoa, a really good movie on and my cat curled at my feet. I love it here. I’m not going anywhere. It is here where I will practice this concept of “writing” – I’ll kick it around, try it on, spin it in front of a mirror and see how it looks.
As for writing as a profession, I’ll just keep plugging away at other venues and see where it takes me – one itty bitty paycheck at a time.
So was being at BlogHer worth it? Yes, I think so. It’s breath-taking to be part of something so incredible with such a powerful voice. And I adored seeing all of my friends. It was as if my twitter stream had come to life – all of those avatars had grown legs and were passing me left and right in the hallway. It was kind of great. Plus I think justifying anything empowering for me – when I give myself so little most of the time – is totally ok.
Sure, I still kind of struggle with my blogging identity. But that’s ok too. Because the minute I get too comfortable I won’t challenge myself, I won’t grow, I won’t get better at any of it.
So, one more time, what am I doing here?
I writing. And connecting. It’s as simple as that.
Have you ever been to New York City? There is something very special about that place. Maybe it’s the concentration of people, voices, talent, needs, ideas, power, drive, hope, movement… I don’t know, whatever it is, New York City has it’s own inner energy and momentum, creating, self-sustainable, humming and alive. Visitors satellite around, are pulled in, overwhelmed, and spun back out into space.
And BlogHer was here this year.
I arrived with my father actually. While I was at the wheel of his Jeep, he read the Garmin’s instructions patiently. Through it all, Bob Marley played the entire way. Cars cutting me off, speeding parkways, death-defying lane changes, traffic, traffic, traffic. Every little thing was gonna be alright.
We rode the elevator to the 41st floor, my ears popped while we watched CNN on a small monitor. New York doesn’t want you to miss a thing it seems.
I said I would be back in a minute, I just wanted to go down to register for the conference. But as soon as I stepped off the elevator, I heard it, I saw it, I felt it. That crackle of NYC’s potential seemed focused into this very space. Women everywhere, reuniting, talking, screaming, laughing, walking, running, dancing, snapping pictures, flip cameras out, chatting in line.
Whoa.
I waited for my turn, not quite ready to take it all in yet. Not sure where to hop into this intensity. After I was registered and had collected myself, I made an awkward leap. And landed somewhere into the mix. I was along for the ride.
I spent four days orbiting within this experience. I connected with dear friends and met wonderful new ones. Blazing stars and inspiring voices whirled about me, radiated before me – encouraging me and then went shooting by. There were so many hugs, so much surprising enthusiasm, so much “Wow, Morningside Mom, Hi!!!”. (Huh?) So so much unexpected generosity. These people became much more than their words read usually at a safe distance. And these people were brilliant, almost blinding.
I have more to say, of course. But I needed to get this post out of my system. I needed to explain what the vibe was in that space. Why simply walking into a room overwhelmed me so intensely, it sent my system far into the red. The recharge room wasn’t even enough. So often I would stagger back to my room, lie on my bed, and stare.
Whoa.
I’ll also admit that I was a bit lost in this experience. I wasn’t sure where to look next or how to hold tight and stop and find people. There were a lot of people I never saw. A lot. This might have been my biggest regret. I think they were spinning right by me but I couldn’t always see them in all of it. So when I did grab one and tried to slow both of us down just to connect, a hundred others seemed to rocket by. I even had friends outside of BlogHer that were there that I never saw. Even my poor father could only reconnect with me now and then. He was overwhelmed by it all too.
So I’ll be back with more. But really. For those who weren’t there. Imagine this concentrated, spinning, exploding, energized space filled with thoughts and voices and differences and debates and ideas and personalities that dared you to hold on tight, to somehow stay in orbit or else find yourself launched into the periphery. It was a challenge but I held on and had quite a ride.
But now I am here, back in my own quiet rotation, far from the Mothership. And I’m processing, thinking, reconsidering and hoping I’ve become a better person, blogger, writer and friend out of all of it. I hope.
A few weeks back, my family and I took a break from beach time on the Cape and drove into Boston for the day. What for? Well, if you don’t know already, my son is an avid baseball fan. So we decided to take a tour of Fenway Park. It was a magical day. We found a new bar/restaurant located under Fenway where we could sit and look over the field itself while enjoying our sandwiches. We walked around it’s exterior picking up souvenirs and snapping pictures. And then we spent a very interesting hour inside the park, which culminated with some time sitting in the monster seats.
One of the most interesting stops, however, was our time sitting in the Press Box. Our tour guide told some fantastic stories about the history of the ball park. I am no baseball freak, but these stories are great. And I was very lucky to have decided to pull out my flip and capture these stories here.
So if you are any kind of baseball fan at all, I suggest you watch. It’s about 10 minutes long but these stories are really very cool. Plus our guide has the most legit Boston accent you’ll ever hear. He was the perfect guide.
After two weeks of living on a sandy peninsula void of much online access to anything however surrounded by national seashore, some combination of visiting family, far too many fried seafood joints, and my very content although browned, mosquito bitten, bathing suited children - I am finally packing up.
Vacation time is just about over.
In a few days, I will be depositing my summer boys with their dad and so many hugs and kisses before they all head back to Tampa. But I’m not heading back to Tampa with them. Not quite yet at least.
Where could I be headed you ask?
After a blogless, wifi-less, nature filled, sandy footed two weeks far from the hustle and bustle of anything much at all, I am leaping head first into the very antithesis of this wonderfully unplugged time out.
I’m headed to BlogHer in NYC.
Hundreds and hundreds of bloggers and dear friends and so so many people I want to see but may not get to or will possibly in passing with humming laptops all logged in with endless tabs open and twitter convos underscoring every panel discussion alongside meet ups in lobbies and coffee spots and karaoke bars and parties and this and that and who knows whatever the hell else all while camping out with two blogging besties in the Hilton in New York City which already has enough hustle and bustle thank you very much to make my over-sunned mind totally and utterly stim out.
But I’m not complaining. Surrounding myself with smart, interesting people in NYC is exactly what I need before I leap into the usual routine of school days, car pick up lines, baseball practice, homework, and mac n cheese dinners.
Will you be there? Post here so I know to look out for you.
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