Again. Like I haven’t been working for the past two years. But does it really count?
Over the past few weeks, I have been reunited with my old resume again. The years-old file was pulled up, dusted off and, with some effort and focus, it is now finally updated. But all this focus on my experience and value as an employee has got me thinking about my own perceptions of work and blogging and how it’s counted after all.
Before I was a blogger or a parent, I worked “for real”. I had a decent salary, I wore suits to work, I had an assistant and people I supervised and years of experience in a career I liked well enough for the time being.
Fancy, huh?
But then I had my first son and, after some heart stopping birth trauma, I dropped that nice salary to stay home and watch my son breathe and feed and make sure he actually exisisted after everything we went through.
And I don’t regret it. Almost seven years later surviving on one salary and a miracle, I am proud of every second I’ve spent watching both of my boys live and play and grow into the people they are today.
But during that time, I started blogging. Little ol’ me started writing and writing and writing. I found a furious affection for it and just kept writing. And then readers started reading. Two years passed and here I am with an enormous archive of posts, a boatload of loyal readers, experiencesbeyond anything I could have dreamed of and such curious titles as “Mommy Blogger” , “Freelancer” and “Influencer”.
Still. While I updated my resume, I wasn’t initially sure what I had to show for myself recently. Even after all of this hard work and all of these posts. It didn’t seem to count as “real” work. Why? Well, no one is paying me to do it. No one is standing over my head with deadlines expecting me to pump all of this out. I don’t have a fancy office or an assistant or co-workers to go have drinks with after work. No salary and benefits seems to give all this Morningside Mom stuff so much less value in my mind.
Which is wrong.
And when I fill out my information under “employment” on forms or meet new people or talk to family members about what I am doing, I’m still a stay at home mom – oh, and who happens to blog *blush*, which is no big deal.
Not ok. At least in my own mind, it deserves more serious consideration and, well, pride.
Why is that so hard to find?
There has been a lot of recent discussion about parent blogs, some of it not so positive. As if we are some sort of catty, free stuff grabbing, bon bon eating, children ignoring, blog writing annoyances. As if we’re not here taking our work seriously while still parenting our children well. As if we’re not actually professionals – fancy salaries or not.
But doesn’t it say something about a person to love their work and focus so carefully on it and maintain a purposeful writing schedule and attend expensive conferences and hold themselves accountable when they have nobody breathing down their necks and are paid absolutely nothing to do it?
And I have to wonder if the fact that we aren’t paid to be “influencers” does us some damage. Because not only are we at risk of not taking more pride in our own work, but we are more easily written off by media, companies and the interwebs at large. We’re just misinformed, chattering outlanders: not journalists, not paid professionals. And if you don’t like what we write, who cares, no one takes bloggers seriously anyway. Clearly, not being held accountable or associated with a particular company or not being given a monetary value can absolutely translate as no value at all.
Screw that.
After all these years of working and writing and caring so much about what I do certainly gives me and my writing value. And as I plugged things into my resume and reviewed posts in my archives, I realized that I have a ton of experience. A ton. While raising my boys, I’ve managed to get an extraordinary amount done on my own accord. And I’ve done it well.
I know being home alone without any one patting me on the back has withered my confidence to some degree. But resume writing always results in important soul searching and I’ve come to realize that all of this – right here, where I have so diligently and loyally posted my thoughts and reviews for over two years - deserves pride and it deserves recognition.
So there.
Ok. So fine. I feel a little better about myself. And that’s very nice, isn’t it? But what will it really mean down the line? Will I find employment doing something I already do and love doing? Or will I find myself starting from scratch because maybe my value as an employee doesn’t really translate just because I have a blog where I write.
Isn’t that nice, dear. Now. What have you REALLY done, hmmm? Perceptions of bloggers are what they are, no matter how much value I give my own work.
I’ll keep you posted as I always do. Until then, I have some ramblings running around in my head about my usual topics: my kids, some punditry, fabulous upcoming giveaways, missing my mom, Florida living, random ponderings and so much more.
It’s what I do and – take it or leave it - it’s what I do well. Let’s just hope that folks who might actually pay me in real, actual dollar bills think so too.
I’m a big fan of the ladies over at Aiming Low. So I am ripping a page out of their book today (imitation being the highest form of flattery, of course) and will attempt to explain just exactly how low I can aim. Specifically? When cleaning. I make a total shamockery of the whole concept of house cleaning. And here’s how I do it.
Wait, let me back up and tell you why.
While some of my childhood friends had things matched and just so and put away in their places, I did not. I could care less about order. Many memories of my mother include exasperated pleas to do something about my bedroom. But my kind of cleaning usually resulted in finding old stuff and playing with it in the very corner I started in until she came back in and saw me off in la-la land still surrounded by the shambles of my bedroom. Call me rebellious or just a particularly lazy kind of lazy or perhaps distracted by my own unique style of creativity (oh, I like that one), I kind of only barely did anything to make heads or tails of my own living space.
Then I became a grown up. And when dishes got left someplace or the rug pilled exotic animal hair balls, I heard my mother’s voice grumble from under my breath: “Who do you expect is going to clean this up?” Me. Damn. Do I have to? I guess.
So, yeah, I clean now. But only because I have to. And usually only when I invite someone over. Or I get mad. When I’m mad, I love to clean. So consider my home a happy place when it’s dirty (which is often, so yay for us). But maybe worry if it’s too clean. Really. Or else just expect company to ring our doorbell in the next 5 – 10 minutes because that’s about how clean it will remain with my boys at large, trailing dirt from shoes, dismantled toys and sandwich crusts.
But if I hate to clean so much, how do I do it exactly? You should not be surprised to hear that when I do clean, it isn’t the most thorough job ever. Shocked and appalled, I’m sure, but you need to understand that buffing the underside of the frig’s crisper drawers just doesn’t turn me on. It just doesn’t, I’m sorry.
Ok, time to discuss cleaning itself. I’ve procrastinated enough. I usually start with the dishes. Because there is NO way a home can be considered even remotely clean if there are dishes in the sink. So that means unloading the dishwasher, cramming everything haphazardly into whatever cabinet that fits it and slamming the doors shut to keep it all from falling out. Then cramming the dishwasher with whatever could possibly fit in there too. As long as the spinning water thingie on top clears, we’re good.
Then I wipe down the kitchen. No I don’t pick up the toaster and look for crumbs. No I don’t scrub every milk circle off the table. No I don’t scrub the scum off the stove burners. I have, but you have to be some big-wig kind of company for me to go that far.
Then I sweep. Where you can see. (Do NOT move my couches or you will be asked to leave my house.)
Vacuum? …Maybe. It depends. I take a step back and eyeball my carpets. Like a ripe melon, you just know when the accumulated grime is impossible to ignore.
If there is a splat of something on the floor, do I grab the mop and wet the whole place down? I’ve done it before. A few times ago, I did it. But usually? I grab an anti-bacterial wipe and spot treat. Perfection.
(Note: Those antibacterial wipes are fab. No sponges or extra spraying steps. Wipe everything down and you know bad germies are gone(ish). Yes, I know they’re wasteful. But one goes a long way, let me tell you. Or at least they do for me…)
Oh. Clutter. Yeah, there is always a place for that. Usually in the guest room. All things unwanted and undealt with go to die in my guest room. And then when you are looking for tax forms or insurance cards, you always know where they are. More or less.
(No, I file stuff. I have special piles. I know where everything is. Not to worry. …Don’t look at me like that.)
Toys? Oh I have a favorite spot for toys. If they don’t fit into the established toy baskets or if they are falling apart, they usually go in a bag to charity. Seriously. If they are cluttering everything up and aren’t being used, buh-bye. Easy.
Laundry might be my favorite. Well, at least the part where you can throw heaps of it into the washer and shut the top. Voila, gone! It’s just the part about taking it back out again and sorting and folding it. Lame. So my kids get their school clothes out of the “probably” clean hamper. Wrinkled? My husband’s remedy is to sprinkle them with water and throw them into the dryer for a couple minutes. And yes, this is a wasteful use of electricity. Duly noted.
So them’s my tricks for clean living here at Chez Morningside. Feel free to steal a couple. Or take this post as permission to let yourself slide now and again. Because any parent of young children who takes the time to perform multiple exercises in futility clean regularly should expect it undone within the hour.
Granted, if you get mad about that, maybe you’ll want to clean again.
And so does just about every woman in her thirties and far far far beyond.
But humor me while I quickly consider this fact. And you probably will since I’m going to bet that many readers have been at this moment, pouting deep within the indulgence of his or her own ego, realizing that her face is simply not what it was.
In those very early, hardly adult years, I think a lot of us kind of kid ourselves. Not me. I won’t get lines. I’ll be one of those Jane Seymour types that never ages. Lines happen to everyone else. Like my mom. Or, ok, if I do get lines, it will be a long, long, very long time from now. Like when I’m as old as Rose from “Titanic”, and they will look beautiful, regal and well earned after the amazing life I’ve led. And then with a dramatic sigh, I will die peacefully in my sleep with memories of steamy love affairs with Leonardo DiCaprio comforting my way to the pearly gates. Lines show up then. Not now…
Not true.
The other day I was flying about my house trying to get my kids out the door to a game. Did they have their shoes, where are their snacks, stop hitting your brother, get in the car, STOP hitting your brother, where is my cell, SIT DOWN, stop hitting your brother, here is your water, are you strapped in, ok.
And I shut the car door.
Well, there I was staring back in the window’s reflection. I’m not sure what it is about a car window’s reflection – but I saw it all. Or at least more than I usually do. Deep, annoyed grooves, pressed lips, sagging parentheses around my mouth, horizontal zigzags across my forehead and two harsh vertical divots between my eyes which I believe are called the “elevens” (thank you Dr. 90210 for naming the ugly).
So much for Jane Seymour.
Now I know this is nothing unique and hardly deserves any sympathy. I am 37. Time goes by, your face changes, suck it up. I’m not even all that woeful and wishing I was a pretty little 23 year old thing. Because I’m just not. I’m a 37 year old mature, regular, typical mom thing. And that’s totally fine.
But seeing that reflection was certainly one more lesson in vanity and the useless time wasted on vanity, a lesson on time gone by and of course my own mortality.
I watch my children grow and run and change around me everyday. My six year old’s ankles have suddenly shown themselves under the cuffs of his pants legs. His new, adult teeth are boldly making their place in his mouth. I find him standing with his hands in his pockets, or lying on the carpet with his hands behind his head – glimpses of the relaxed adult he will be. And my three year old is going to school too and even reading. And finding the bathroom when he needs to go on his own. And finally taking turns. They are morphing before my very eyes, becoming something completely new over the course of days, months and years.
Why do I assume that time stands still for me? That I remain unchanged and unaffected? I honestly shouldn’t. Because I don’t.
This post isn’t supposed to be another wistful feel sorry for myself blather. I mean it. I don’t think I look particularly awful or anything. And I am certainly not hoping to score some free botox for a nice little review on my site. (Although I’m betting it happens on blogs elsewhere.)
I’m really ok about it (…I post here as convincingly as possible…). I’m just making a note of it. I have lines on my face. I am not who I was. I age.
(Bleh.)
Now to make sure any new arrivals become laugh lines instead of any other kind. It’s something to work on at least. That and to someday be as beautiful, as at peace and as satisfied with my life as Rose’s character was in Titanic. I’d toss everything of value in the ocean too if I could have that.
So until then, onward.
(Just promise not to tell my husband about those Leonardo DiCaprio affairs. A lady must have her secrets…)
So I bought some Diet Coke yesterday. I’m not a huge Coke drinker really but I’ve recently been having the urge to “rest my eyes” at traffic lights on the way to picking up my kid from school. Not good. So I’m thinking an afternoon pick me up once in awhile might just be a good idea.
(Sidebar: I get really… er… hot flash-ish, heart racy and all freakified if I drink too much caffeine. Unfortunately coffee is just a bad idea. Think “Tweek” from South Park. So one Diet Coke has got me covered for a loooong while. Just to clarify.)
But I have this strange aversion to buying drinks that have no purpose. Who needs to get all hooked on the extra sugar and caffeine and aspartame and preservatives and crap for all that extra money. (“Extra money” being the key phrase here. Really? I’m usually just too cheap to shell out for the fun stuff.)
So we mostly drink milk and water around these parts. (Oh and wine. And beer. Both of which have a purpose, but I digress.)
But now and again, I buy some Diet Coke as a treat. (Way to live the life, right?) Oh and it’s purpose? To keep my engines revved so I actually move my car forward when the light turns green rather than take a little afternoon snooze right there in the middle of an intersection.
(… You know what? I should probably just get unsweetened ice tea. I’m betting its cheaper and better for me. Again I digress.)
So I wheely wheeled my kid crammed grocery cart over to the drink section the other day and saw row upon row of Cokes on sale. Which one was the one I wanted? Ummm, the caffeine one with cancer causing sugar substitutes. Yeah that one.
Wait. What’s this? A Diet Coke with pretty blue swirlies on it? What does it mean?
“Diet Coke Plus” it read. “Diet Coke with Vitamins and Minerals.”
Wha…? You mean the Coke peeps are trying to make me think that drinking Coke is good for me? They think that dropping some vitamin B6, B12, some niacin, and zinc in with my phenylalanine and aspartame is really helping a mother out? Or are they thinking that maybe I’ll buy it now because it has a little added value since I can’t get my act together to take a daily vitamin?
Well, it worked. I bought it over the simple red and silver can. Oooh blue swirlies that look all healthy-ish. It can’t hurt, right?
I don’t know. There is something amiss in all of this. I can’t help but feel a little duped. I’ve seen it more and more often these days while I wheely-wheel around my Publix. Crappy products with no real dietary value are suddenly showing up with extra vitamins and minerals. And 5 grams of fiber. And added protein and calcium.
Along side their usual 30 grams of sugar and high fructose corn syrup and trans fat and aspartame and glunk, gook and more bad for you stuff.
It rings a bit sinister I’m afraid.
I mean, SURE, I’d like 5 grams of fiber in my serving of cookies. If I was planning on buying that crap anyway, I may as well have some added something to it. You know, to take away the guilt of buying those dreaded (…nom, nom, nom…MORE…) cookies in the first place.
But if folks think that they can somehow live a MORE healthy lifestyle with these added nutrients dropped in and amongst the regular crap… well… yikes.
There has been a lot more recent priority placed on healthy lifestyles in this country. Which is great. And I am hoping folks are going to make better choices about what they eat and how much they eat. But I just wish these companies would do more to put an overall more healthy product out that we want to buy – rather than keep the same old same old, except for dropping in a vitamin or two, swishing it around and calling it a day.
I know, I know. I still bought the Diet Coke. I still fell for the whole “oooh vitamins in a healthier looking can” thing. (Sidebar: There is a reason for this. And it all traces back to my myers-briggs results which happen to show that I am in the group of people who tend to fall for product placement and advertising more than any other group so its NOT my fault.) I mean, I am not the perfect eater. And my kids need to eat more (ANY) veggies. And we eat fast food sometimes and boxed mac and cheese is part of the rotation and I’ll have a Diet Coke every so often. Sue me.
It’s just. Dude. I know my Diet Coke Plus won’t make me a healthier person. But does everyone else know that? And will we as a collective group just settle for these “healthier” changes? Or will we push food companies further and start expecting them to take out the bad while putting in the good? And maybe expect them to make a more healthy product for real.
And will WE take more responsibility (rather than rely on a Diet Coke for our vatamin B12) and buy more fresh foods and substitute water for sugar drinks and eat green leafy things and cut back on scary stuff that eats our brains? Or will we buy that box of Cheeze-its because it’s got more fiber now and call that dinner?
I’m just saying.
…I can’t believe I wrote a post about a can of Coke.
…which is sitting in front of me.
…and so I’m totally blaming the caffeine swimming in and amongst my “plus” vitamins for this post’s total random factor and multiple sidebars. For real.
(Disclaimer: I had two VERY large Diet Cokes the other day while waiting for my crappy Hard Rock lunch before the TMBG concert. Which now, in retrospect, might explain my tweeked out fan freak out post. Because, yes, I can keep a caffeine tweek for a full 24 hour period. You’re so jealous, right?)
(Another disclaimer: No the Coke people did not ask me to review Diet Coke Plus nor did I get anything free for writing about it. Other than an annoying, pounding sensation…)
….I think I have a headache.
*Setting down the Diet Coke Plus and walking away.*
Confidence is such a tricky thing. For anyone. I don’t care how many fancy degrees you do or don’t have under your belt, how hard you rock your job or how many awards you’ve earned as mother of the year. Confidence never comes automatically with any of it.
I am struggling to find a little of it myself these days. I privately brim and bubble with so much self doubt. It feels a little pathetic, and lonely, and then just feeds back into the cycle, so I feel worse and silly and not worth the trouble.
How did I get to this point? Why can’t I find my own private brand of “awesome” and feed off of that all day?
I have been out of an office place for almost seven years. And I am starting to re-fire my engines and consider going back (into something, anything) later this year. I don’t feel ready, I don’t know what I am doing, my professional skills feel entirely too atrophied, any competitive edge I thought I had seems long LONG gone.
Something happens when you stay home with your children. Something happens when you bring home your newborn and have to lower your expectations of productivity to a snails pace. Maybe you’ll get a shower in during the day or a bit of food. Maybe. You don’t prioritize your needs and then you don’t expect to owe yourself much. I think I kind of just got used to never quite being 100% so great at anything ever since. Or I assumed I wasn’t. It’s just not about me anymore.
(Ugh. Patheticness. Am already annoying myself with this post.)
Ok, its not as if I shouldn’t feel proud of some of the things I have accomplished. My children are amazing. And I am grateful for that. And to make a general statement that staying home with your kids makes you weak, well, come on. We KNOW that’s not true.
It’s just you have to dig way down deep to reclaim that piece of awesome I had reinforced on a regular basis beforehand.
Because you know that having children just adds a heap load more reasons to doubt myself. A heap load. When it comes to something so dear to your heart, when you have two children’s futures resting in your hands, when its on you to make sure they turn out ok… well, it’s hard to feel like any kind of rock star parent. There is a LOT to mess up, my friends. A lot.
Plus raising children 24/7 with no job review, or cute clothes, or pat on the back from any sort of boss, or flashy benefits assuring that you are SO worth that fancy “mom” title. Well. I usually have no idea if I am even in the ballpark of doing an ok-ish job as a mom.
So I have to dig deep.
Shovel, sling dirt, Yoo hoo, where’s my awesome? Shovel, sling dirt, it’s gotta be down here. Shovel, sling dirt, I think. Shovel, sling dirt, somewhere.
Somewhere, somehow, that old “who gives a crap what they think” will resurface, that swagger, that special something that I used to have.
Meh. Yeah. I don’t know.
And I know its not just me. I know lots of parents feel this way. Or every day folk stuck in jobs that they don’t love but are lucky to have. Or anyone stuck in any kind of rut or wishing for something more or wondering where the old “me” went and if they ever had it in the first place.
I am going to have to muster up a sizeable amount of “I’ve got nothing to lose” if I want to get back out there and work again. I have to find my value, my real worth and then – *eeps* – actually flaunt it. I have to convince someone, anyone that I am worth paying a chunk of money to and that I am so super-fabulous-awesome even though I’ve only worked part time here and there and really the only productive thing I’ve done over the past seven years is write. But how productive is that when it’s amounted to the equivalent of a few grocery trips and tanks of gas? No disrespect, glad to have that much, but how the hell do I, little ol’ me, translate as anything worthy?
Groan. WOW. I don’t like not being confident. I don’t like how I sound. I feel all kinds of icky when I’m feeling sorry for myself. And then I assume if I annoy myself this much, I must be annoying to everyone else so I back off. Don’t mind me. I’m the frumpy mommy mess, talking to myself in a corner. Move along. Nothing to see here.
I SO scream “hire me!” don’t I?
So yeah. Confidence is a tricky thing. Fleeting, here and there, evaporating, condensing, dropping back in, and gone again.
I think its rebuilt on the little achievements and the possibility of doing more the next time. I think its about taking chances and promising yourself that any risk is worth the reward. Its about reminding yourself about what you’ve done before and your ability to do that bigger and better the next time.
My parenting abilities, my writing skills, my job worthiness, my value as a friend, my position as a valuable, contributing member of society.
I’m working on it. I’m digging for it. Deep. Shovel, sling dirt, I remember leaving it down here, somewhere.
I’m currently watching news coverage about the President’s arrival in Tampa. On the day after his State of the Union Address, he is here to announce a new rail system between this city and Orlando. It will create jobs, it will expand the area, it will help traffic, it is entirely needed and very exciting.
Of course, I’m excited simply because he’s in town. I wish I had been able to call in sick from my stay at home mom duties to stand in line and possibly get a ticket into the town hall meeting hosted by the University of Tampa.
But TV coverage will do. It’s all good.
This morning, I took my three year old to open hours at a local indoor petri dish bounce play place. He was excited and I was excited for him to toss himself wildly about until he crumpled into a nap-ready pile that I could carry out of there.
But as I was wrangling shoes, signing in and dealing with my 3yo, I heard this conversation between two of the women working there – one in her 40s and one college aged.
Woman #1: I can’t believe he’s coming here. He’s just going to make traffic a living nightmare downtown.
College-aged Woman: I know. I can’t believe anyone wants to go and even see him. I am going no where near campus today.
Woman #1: I wouldn’t. Plus it could be dangerous. Someone could try and take a shot at him.
College-aged Woman: I know and Biden is with him too…
Woman #1: Well, that would be two for the price of one then wouldn’t it?
Laughing… or maybe it was cackling.
College-aged Woman: Yeah, I wish! …*snort*… I totally hate that man.
While this conversation was happening, my three year old had finally been de-shoed and, as his friend had ran by, I found myself on my feet and chasing him into the room filled with inflatables.
But I felt like I had been slapped in the face.
HATE.
Seething, angry, from the soul… hate.
It’s everywhere.
Before I even had the chance to sit down and write this post, I was watching news coverage of the presidential motorcade speeding through Tampa. And protesters, in all of their tea bagging glory, were booing and giving our President the finger.
HATE.
To say that I am discouraged by our country… to say that I am exhausted by our financial slump… to say that I am disillusioned by politics… to say that I haven’t felt very hopeful recently… well. Yeah. But I’m nothing unique. My frustrations are about par for our county’s course these days.
But I am so sick to death of the negativity. I am so tired of certain political pundits, organized groups and news sources gleefully green-lighting hateful discourse. I am so tired of destructive, spiteful words. I am fed up with a party whose sole purpose is to simply stop any and all bipartisan efforts to fix what we have ALL played a part in dismantling one way or another.
Enough.
I didn’t like Bush in office. Shocking, I know. And sure, I may have been a little seethy towards him. I may have disagreed with pretty much everything that came out of his mouth. And I may have said my piece about that too. But I sat myself down to listen every time he had something to say. I wanted there to be something for me to go on, to be hopeful about. I WANT to like our leadership and SEE positive steps forward, no matter whose party is at the helm. I knew we had to work with what we had.
I see so little listening. I see too many minds made up. I see very few attempts at kind of trying to work it out, you know, for the sake of our country.
And there is certainly no doubt in my mind that all of this frustration and loss we’ve experienced as a nation has fueled a very dangerous vein of anger. Its coursing along and gaining speed rapidly as one person whispers to another that its ok to hate a party you don’t agree with, its ok to hate a president you didn’t vote for, its ok to hate something you aren’t familiar with, its ok to hate something that doesn’t exactly fall in line with your super special beliefs.
All of this frustration, loss and anger should be directed into constructive channels, ones that force us all up off our asses and MAKE us take some responsibility for our neighborhoods, our communities, our towns, cities and ultimately our country.
We’ve only been with this administration for one year. And there are a lot of agenda items trying to go down – because they must go down – at once. It’s not going to be served up to us on a silver platter in a matter of 12 months. Especially while we sit on our couches, snap nasty retorts at our televisions and do nothing positive to fix any part of it.
I took my two boys to the zoo this weekend. And usually this is a seemingly uneventful outing. We had a great time. The weather was perfect, balmy animal viewing weather and I even considered posting some of the fun monkey pictures I took when I got home.
But those monkey pictures aren’t really what deserves attention on this blog. Another experience stands out as something I feel should rather be posted about that day.
And it wasn’t a good experience.
I saw hate happen – and it was directed at children.
Let me back up and explain what went down. My three year old had been begging we ride the carousel for the better part of an hour. In fact, I am surprised that any of those monkey pictures were in focus at all. While I took them, he hung, whined, tapped, bumped, pleaded and nudged me until I relented and headed towards the carousel. So there I was, fumbling for change to buy tokens when I heard it.
Laughter…”….Siamese twins!!!”
I looked over and there was a pack of about 5 or 6 high school aged kids walking by, pointing.
“No, no, not Siamese, CHINESE!!!!! CHINESE TWINS, dude. LOOK!!!!”
Laughter. “Where!?”
“OVER THERE! LOOOK!!!!!”
The tallest guy in the pack stopped in his tracks and pointed. The rest kept walking but still – laughter, laughter, laughter, pointing…
I turned to see where they were pointing. And there, between the token machine and the carousel were two girls of Asian decent, sisters, obviously twins. Their ages were somewhere between my sons – so maybe four or five years old. They were both wearing beautiful matching red dresses, and were waiting in line for the ride.
“CHING CHONG CHONGCHINGCHONG CHONG CHING!!!! Holy shit, dude. Chinese twins!!!”
So much laughing.
“Oh my God, dude!!! Check that OUT!”
And then they were out of earshot, almost around the other side of the carousel. Still, I couldn’t help myself and said out loud.
“Are you KIDDING ME?!?!!?”
No one looked at me. No one looked at them. No one seemed to notice. Ignoring? Not hearing? Not caring?
And while I hissed “…. just disgusting, I can NOT believe what I just heard…” I glanced over at the girls. They stood in line. And their mother, whom I had not noticed before, stood there too with her stroller. All three were silent, waiting.
They didn’t act like they had heard anything.
But you know, and I know, that they heard EVERYTHING.
“What Mommy? Whats wrong?”
Had my kids heard anything? They must have. Do I point out what they said was wrong?
But after my six year old asked the question and saw my attention on them, they both turned back to their token recovery mission. They stood hovering at the bottom of the machine, willing their gold coins to drop out at any moment.
Maybe they didn’t hear anything. Or maybe they didn’t understand. Should I explain this to them? Should I have chased after those kids and yelled at them? Wait, could I really do that with my kids who were locked in token grabbing position? Would it make a difference? What do I do??
“Mom. The tokens?”
“Oh yeah.”
I fed the dollar bills into the machine and stole another glance over at the family. The mother looked tired. The girls looked unperturbed.
Should I say something to her?
No. I mean, what if she didn’t hear it, I wouldn’t want to bring attention to it.
Who am I kidding. She heard it. She heard a bunch of punks point out to the world that her two beautiful girls are “Siamese…. no CHINESE!” and then frigging “ching chonged” at them.
It made me sick to my stomach. But I did nothing. Except get tokens and stand in line behind another family who now separated us from both girls and their mother.
I saw her later on that afternoon. The two girls were running at full steam up the hill towards the giraffes. And their mother was a small distance behind them, pushing her stroller. The same tired look on her face, the same resigned sense about her. I tried to make eye contact, I wanted to smile and just send some vibe of kindness her way. But she didn’t look at me. She didn’t look at anyone. Just plodded on.
And I couldn’t help but think that because I didn’t really do anything, I was part of it all. Whose to say I didn’t think what those kids said WAS funny. From where she stands behind her stroller, whose to say the whole damn park didn’t secretly laugh along too. Her girls were singled out because of their race and their “twin-ness”. Whose to say she doesn’t walk around assuming the whole world is against her and her daughters unless someone stands up and says or does otherwise.
Or. Maybe she knows those were just some punk ass kids who are pathetically ignorant and has heard stupidity before and won’t let it get to her and her tired look is just from being tired after a day with her girls at the zoo.
I’d like to think that’s how she feels. It would make me feel better to think that’s how she feels. But really? My bets are that’s not really how she feels.
“Mom, elephants!”
My kids pulled at my hands and I walked away. Safe in my own majority, never having had to consider an issue like this with my children before and possibly never having to again.
So. The other day my innocent little Morningside Mom blog got hacked. It didn’t last long because I freaked out, switched on the Internet bat-call and the wonderful Shannon Entin came through for me once again.
She (thanks be to all that is good on the internets) fixed it.
And as someone who writes, but is woefully unskilled in web techie stuff – Shannon’s skills are so beyond just simply appreciated. I mean she may as well have been standing in front of my laptop, posed in tights and with cape flying in the wind out behind her, one foot propped on whichever toy lay closest. She is smarter than a speeding bullet and rescues non techies in a single bound. My hero. For reals.
Thankfully it wasn’t a hard core hack. Just someone hacking me because they just could.
(Bastards. I hope karma gets you good and you have a complete zit explosion before school next week and you totally get your ass grounded somehow.)
Lesson of the day? Keep your updates updated, change your passwords, keep your passwords (duh, but seriously) and back up your work.
Anyway, so the whole hacking business was timely. Why? Because I’ve been in kind of a strange place with online stuff recently. I think maybe it started last December when I saw some online ugliness rear its head. And then there was lots of chatter about moms being online so much. If we “digital moms” are getting so much done online, what kind of mothers could we be anyway?
(…because mothers can’t possibly multi-task THAT well. Because mothers wouldn’t work on weekends and late into evenings to get something done just because she loves it. Because mothers shouldn’t be doing JACK except stare at their kids playing, eating and pooping all day. Because any stay at home mom who might just happen to have some multi-dimensionality, some other interests, some drive and push in her life along side her love for her children COULDN’T POSSIBLY be a good mother.
I hate that crap. WITH A PASSION.)
So while those conversations were happening online and on cable news networks, it was only natural that I started evaluating how much time I spend blogging. It’s a lot of time.
However. I will staunchly defend myself on this. Like most of the amazing “digital moms” I know, I can assure you that my kids “tricycle riding, playground playing, snuggle and a book reading, homework sitting, ass wiping, coming home from school tripping, feeding, feeding and feeding” time is not compromised. I do those things and I do them well.
But that just started feeding into another issue I’ve been questioning. One most bloggers I know struggle with regularly. I suddenly started feeling that for ALL the work I pour into writing online and for almost nothing in return financially while being questioned about my capabilities as a parent for blogging in the first place…
(Note the daggers shooting out of my eyes for questioning my mommy skillz. Don’t even.)
All the work and time and effort I do put into writing online for not a ton in return other than the pure satisfaction of writing…
Well.
Is it really worth my time?
Is all of this worth anything?
Ok, I feel like I must sound so crazily unappreciative. I know blogging has brought me adventures and friendships and experiences I would never EVER have had otherwise. There would be no way any of it would have happened without this blog.
So maybe this whole post is just a whiney waste of my reader’s time.
But.
Still. I can’t help but question all of this sometimes.
And when my blog suddenly got hacked, all of it, all of this, seemed suddenly so vulnerable. One day, one decent hacker, and *POOF* all this is gone, all that hard work down the drain.
This online stuff is just in a computer after all. It’s not an organic, living, breathing thing. Its just vague internetty beeps, codes, whatever. One wrong delete button gets pushed or some system crashes somewhere and… its nothing.
Ok, I’m being dramatic. I know I am. If its backed up well enough, I should be ok. (I can hear tech-inclined folks telling me its so. And probably giving me a very eye-rolling “oh please” look when I question the real-ness of the internets.)
And you know what else is real, organic, living and breathing? The fabulousfriendships and connections I’ve made. THOSE are very real.
And something else which is extraordinarily valuable, very real and wholly alive is, well, my sanity.
Because while I do all that mothering stuff well (and enjoy doing it very much), there are days when I don’t see another adult until late in the evening, when the kids are fast asleep. I am not simply an ass wiping entity. I need to think. And use grown up language about grown up topics. And blogging offers me this. If nothing else, my sanity is handed over to me daily, like carefully prescribed doses of xanax in its own little while paper cup. Be a good mom, take your meds, nice job, back to your corner in your bathrobe where you rock and hum to yourself while parenting your children. Good girl.
Ok. Again with the dramatics.
I’m just trying to make my point.
I bust my ass online everyday but… when I shut my laptop… I can’t help but have the feeling that some hologram-like world around me has suddenly disintegrated and I am left standing alone in my kitchen again. The friendships are wonderful and important (I love you guys!) – but they aren’t right here, right now, for laughs and drinks and hugs, now, IRL. The experiences are fabulous, but they are fleeting and don’t pay the mortgage.
My sanity is priceless however. So hologram world it is. Bring it on.
Ugh.
But before I leave this post on that really pathetic note, I need to take some responsibility here.
The Internet and all of this blogging is only what you make of it. I’m writing all the time, but do I bust my hump to sell myself? Or my writing abilities? Am I all over SEO and Google ranking? Um. Not so much. I’m really sucky PR for myself. There are plenty of online moms who are making much more out of their blogging experience. Why? Because they have their own back. And I need to do that more. Put myself out there. Get more outside gigs. Not just sit here at home, sigh a lot, and wait for it all to drop in my lap.
Yep. So that’s that. All that has been rattling around in my brain about blogging, its hackability, vulnerability and my general purpose outside of parenting.
Back to real life. Or my hologram life. Which one? Or are they the same….
(Oh. Nice, hitchcocky ending.)
I mean Oscar Wilde probably had it right about life imitating art rather than vice versa.
Back to life then. Because it is my life after all.
Just because this post is no longer “stickied” to the top of my page does not mean Haiti no longer needs our help.
Please consider donating today.
Thank you!
…………………………………………………………………………
I was making a beef stew in my crock pot this afternoon when my three year old tried to put some of his Gogurt in it. It landed on the floor and on his pants. He should have been napping in his bed but a nap wasn’t in the cards today. So, he decided to try and put Gogurt in my stew instead. And that made me crazy because he was a mess and did he need another bath and the kitchen was a mess and I just wanted to have my stew in the crock pot so it would be done for dinner before I left to go get my six year old from school. And as I type this, my Gogurt stained child is whining about being hungry AGAIN. What is he going to have, he’s asking me while staring down the pantry. Here are two crackers, now go play on the porch and stop hassling me.
Its the kind of every day stuff many of us deal with all the time.
And it is a blessing.
The stew in my crock pot, the warm beds, the clean clothes, the baths, the snacks, the gas in my car, the car that I drive, the solid roof over my son’s classroom, the still ground beneath us, and all of our lives.
I’m swearing about Gogurt and crackers but, I promise you, I know better.
Please donate to the Red Cross to assist the people in Haiti. $1, $5, whatever you can do.
Text “Haiti” to 90999 to donate $10.00. 100% of your donation passes through Red Cross for Haiti relief. Your cell carrier keeps nothing.
Last night, I read a message from a husband telling his wife’s friends that she has had a stroke. Anissa Mayhew was in the ICU and we had no further information.
A stroke. A mother, a blogger, a friend, my age, infatuated with Edward Cullen and looking forward to a Disney Cruise planned for tomorrow, had a stroke and is now unresponsive.
I don’t claim to be Anissa’s BFF. By no means. And I won’t get all freaky and make this tragedy all my own. But my heart has broken regardless. If you know Anissa even in passing, or from reading her blog, you will understand this. Anissa’s reach extends far beyond her immediate friends or family in Atlanta. And I am having a very hard time expressing all that she has done for everyone else… Really, just go and readabout her. I know I just won’t do her one stick of justice.
So, I’m far from her BFF but I know her. We’ve met a few times and I consider her a friend. We shared a stroller at the March of Dimes walk this year. (By the way, she organized that group. Local Tampa bloggers came together – see pic here – to walk for Maddie because she organized it. It’s just how she rolls.) Our kids have played together. She promised me vodka at the Type A Moms conference. When my friend’s baby passed away, I found myself immediately typing an email to her. HELP. What do I do? She told me to BE THERE for her, don’t back away. Did you know that she went to 9 funerals for children this year? She has seen loss, she knows it well, SHE has been the rock that so many people have depended on. She told me she hated being considered some expert on the subject, who would? But she sure as shit knows how to love her friends. And she gave me advice about how to love better during tragedy and pain. She gives and gives and gives.
So now she is experiencing a horrible tragedy. Her brain bled. And she hasn’t woken up.
Did you know she happened to be on a segment on the Today Show this morning? It was about spanking children. Do you know how she suggested we punish our children? Have them sit on the floor, face each other and hug for ten minutes. I laughed hard.
And then the tweet I cracked up at yesterday and had to retweet:
RT @AnissaMayhew Don’t tell anyone, but I made $326K from blogging last year but I blew it on bacon and the Jonas Bro fan club.
If you’ve heard about all the recent drama regarding bloggers deserving to be paid, I assume you are laughing and loving it just as much as I did.
So anyway. Not long after that tweet (hours?) she collapsed. And is now laying in an ICU. Unresponsive.
Life has plodded on today despite this news, as it always seems to.
But then I was driving home from my 3yo’s school today and Ani came on my MP3 player. Not surprisingly, I couldn’t help but think of her.
buildings and bridges
are made to bend in the wind
to withstand the
world,
that’s what it takes
all that steel and stone
is no match for
the air, my friend
what doesn’t bend breaks
what doesn’t bend
breaks
She knows how to bend, to make room for it all, she has withstood so much. She bends and moves and works against it and surives it all with laughter and love and the purest kind of charity.
we are made to bleed
and scab and heal and bleed again
and
turn every scar into a joke
we are made to fight
and fuck and talk and
fight again
and sit around and laugh until we choke
Anissa is a really funny woman. Really funny. Wit and humor weaves its way through every post, every conversation, every experience. She turns every scar into a joke. And those in pain around her find that they can breathe again when they laugh.
Whether she likes it or not, she has become an example to so many. She is familiar with death. She knows a parent’s purest kind of fear. So many have looked to her. What do we do? How do we do it?
So Anissa, now its you. Our hearts are gripped with fear but we don’t have you to ask what we should do. But I know your example has already put the wheels of charity and support in motion. If there is one small bit of gratitude I have right now, it would be that I am comforted knowing you are getting all the love you’ve given back right now. Karma is your bitch, she owes you BIIIIIG. The love is coming – for you, for your family, for the community you’ve created, and have left waiting for your return.
Wake up Anissa, fight back again. So you can turn this scar into one more joke. You, of all people, can do this.
For any and all information regarding Anissa, please visit the Aiming Low website where her family is posting updates. Also, please be careful about the information you share and be sure it only comes directly from Aiming Low. Finally, please respect their privacy at this very difficult time. Thank you.
So, I’m far from her BFF but I know her. We’ve met a few times and I consider her a friend. We shared a stroller at the March of Dimes walk this year. (By the way, she organized that group. Local Tampa bloggers came together – see pic here – to walk for 
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