Friday, March 12, 2010

Theme

Last night I asked Z what he thought of the first blog post. He sort of hesitated, which is never a good sign. And then he asked a really good question. “What are you writing about?” He didn’t think I wanted to write a history of our son’s life. And if I did want to he suggested that I break it up into much shorter entries. Point well taken.
After I nursed my very fragile ego for a few minutes I did some thinking. I guess what I was trying to do is provide some background, but really that post was for me. I’m still trying to sort through my own garbage that goes along with a huge life changing event. And it would probably be much more interesting for everyone involved if I did that sorting on my own time.
So. What I’d like to write about here is all the stuff that no one talks about when it comes to motherhood. Especially motherhood influenced by a pesky anxiety disorder. Not groundbreaking stuff, probably stuff lots of other “mommy bloggers” are writing about, but heck the only person required to read this lives with me. Hi Zekers.
If you’d like to hear my thoughts on breastfeeding, why women are so damn mean to each other, and of course anal fissures please stay tuned…

5 comments:

  1. re: Anal fissures. Been there, done that. Don't need to be reminded what it feels like to think you're shitting broken glass. Would rather hear more of your usual wit and charm.

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  2. Darlin' Kgirl, I think this is the point -- RIGHT NOW -- when you make the decision that you will never, ever ask anyone again what they think of what you write here.

    It's about as useful as asking someone, "How would you like me to deliver this baby? Am I birthing this baby in a pleasing fashion to you?"

    Write whatever you want, however you want, here, or anywhere else you feel like scribbling the Truth. In the end, that's a real gift to yourself. And the Little Feller will someday know that he had an authentic mama, who was authentically bearing witness to the Good, the Bad, and the Very Anally Ugly. Anal fissures, motherhood love, motherhood hate -- so what? Fuck wit and charm. They are highly overrated traits. (Sorry, Dave. I'm sure we'd get along well in person.)

    You know that I've been at this thing for a while, this writing thing. And you've correctly noted the absurd Insta-Aging that happens after you give birth. Massive, stunning change, inner and external.

    What I'm saying, baby? Is that you iz a woman now. Take no prisoners. Your whole life has changed. Let it show. Anal fissures, heart fissures, soul fissures. You have been broken wide open. Let it show. Write this blog with zero apology. Write when you damn well feel like it, and don't if you don't feel like it. This is YOUR space.

    Show up, and let yourself show.

    I think (and you should be willing to dismiss every word I say, because in the end, I am just another blog reader, not you):

    No mother grows as a woman, and no woman grows as a mother, without bearing witness to her own fabulously offbeat truth -- if she chooses to write publicly, semi-publicly, or privately, or in her noggin', or in squirted breastmilk cursive on a goddamn paper towel.

    Bring on the anal fissures, baby, and whatever the eff else you wish to bring on. You will find your way by doing the writing, by letting your own delightfully offbeat and ballsy sensibility flow.

    And if Dave prefers your usual "wit and charm," perhaps it's good for him to know how TRULY witty and charming you must be, to be sitting on broken glass while simultaneously being a delight.

    You don't have to be delightful here. You will be, because you are you, and we are reading already, so that should tell you something. But you never, ever have to be delightful. Because this ENORMOUS CHANGE?

    NOT DELIGHTFUL. OCCASIONALLY DELIGHTFUL, BUT OVERALL? NOT WHOLLY DELIGHTFUL.

    I love you. Tag. You're it.

    Go.

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  3. fer one? you've totally inspired me to start a little blag of one's own. this mamahood stuff's a total trip and, hey, other than porno and buying cheap porno, what good is the internet if you can't ramble and rant and spill and ooze for all to see.
    and fer two, that garbage of yers that comes with this life changing event? it's not really garbage. and the best thing in the world, sometimes, is to fling that stank-ass not-garbage all over the front lawn. a.) the house stops smelling and b.) maybe one of yer neighbors, who has her own not-garbage, will wander by and *suddenly* feel much less alone.

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  4. Jenn, you would love Dave. He is one of my favorite people on this planet.

    About not asking what other think: good advice. Seemingly impossible, but something to strive for.

    And thanks. I love you, too lady.

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  5. Hey Jenn, thanks for your thoughts. I note that your opinions about what Karen ought to do or write here are at also well-defined, and I can see that you, too, are valued for it. Perhaps even more than my own post, yours also attempts to establish a tone for this blog, molded in the image of what you prefer to see here. Whether our author chooses to take either direction, or, as you also suggest, dismisses every word [we] say, I look forward to seeing how it all turns out!

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