There’s a lot of shit being thrown around right not regarding the whole “mommybloggers are exploiting their children” topic that is making the rounds lately. It’s not a new topic. From the first time I wrote about my kid peeing on the floor and the cats drinking it, I’ve been asked if I thought it was really appropriate to be sharing such intimate details about my child’s life and I’ve always said the same thing: I’m not sharing intimate details of her life. I’m sharing intimate details of mine. She just happens to be in it. That sounds selfish and narcissistic but guess what? So does having a blog.
When I was a kid I wrote dumb stories all the time. When I was a teen I got all gothy and expressed myself with bad poetry and sulking. In college I made disturbing screenprints of people cutting off their own fingers and did angry public poetry readings. After college I moved to making bizarre, eerie dollhouses and journaled like mad. And now? I blog. It’s my form of creative expression and it makes me a better person. Sometimes it’s funny. Sometimes it’s sad. Sometimes it gets me hatemail. But all the time it is me, and just because I am someone’s mom, or wife, or daughter, or friend that does not mean that I should have any less of a “voice” than I had before. If anything I should have more of a voice, because I have a hell of a lot more to say than I did when I was 20.
Limits are good and (surprisingly) I do have them but would I ever stop blogging just because my kid turned into a mortified teen and told me she wanted me to stop blogging? No, because teenagers are stupid. I should know.
I date them. I was one. And just as I’m going to have to soldier through the years when Hailey decides to shave her head or considers joining the Hare Krishnas, she will have to soldier through having a mother who is who she is: Fucked-up, horrifyingly unfiltered, but basically a decent chick. And hopefully we will both learn to appreciate those points in each other.
Except for the cult thing because I am not afraid to burn down a compound of Hare Krishnas to get my daughter back. That’s just how I roll, Krishnas. Fair warning.
PS. Tonight I’m having dinner with Guy Kawasaki. It’ll be weird seeing him without using binoculars. And without him being in the shower. I think I’ll pop out the lenses and use them when I talk to him at dinner just so I’ll feel more at home. That won’t be weird at all.
Comment of the day: I’m not cool enough to be exploited.
I love ya lady, but in a totally healthy way, it’s not like I print all of your posts out and plaster them all over the extra bedroom that no one really knows about and light my Jenny candles each night, repeating The Bloggessitudes…
“Oh in Houston a lady that lives
with a husband named Victor and a kid with kitten armpits
she talks about subjects so ribald and bold
she has nice getaway sticks and hates to smell mold”
and then i dress up in a curlers and hold a blow dryer whilst staring blankly into a mirror.
because that’s what would do if they had a problem.