According to Michael Savage (who obviously isn’t one of my favorite people ANYWAY), a child with autism is “a brat who hasn’t been told to cut the act out.” Autism is a result of bad parenting. And Savage’s cure for autism is for the child’s father to say, “stop acting like a putz. Straighten up. Act like a man. Don’t sit there crying and screaming, idiot.” Or, my personal favorite, “don’t act like a girl.”
So… if my husband and I would just punish Isaac every time he starts whacking his head against the wall, then he’d be well. Or if we’d just told him to “act like a man” he would have been able to walk when other children his age walked. And if we would just yell at Isaac and call him an idiot, he would suddenly be able to speak.
Brilliant.
Savage has been given a thousand opportunities to clarify what he said and to take it back, but he won’t. He stands by his words. (See the NY Times article here).
Someone tell me WHY this man still has a job?
What was perhaps equally disturbing for me when I heard about this and then researched it were all the comments I see all over the place by equally horrid people saying things like, “whew! It’s about TIME someone told the truth about autism.” And “Go Savage.” And “anyone with an autistic child just needs to take a PARENTING CLASS.”
Wow.
I don’t think that there’s a more sweet, vulnerable, easy-to-target group of people in the world than autistic children.
Also, I don’t think there’s a group of more scared, confused, and guilt-ridden (not because it’s their fault AT ALL, but because mothers tend to feel guilt, especially when something is wrong with a child) people than parents of autistic children.
It must make Savage and Friends feel SOOO good about themselves to have found someone to pick on…
Many of you have noticed (and mentioned) that the little tab up at the top of my page here that says “Blogroll” is pretty much empty. Non-existent. I have no blogroll.
But now that I’m in a new place and I’m kinda starting up this bloggy thing again, it’s probably time I do it right. And put in a blogroll. A real blogroll that’s really representative of what I read and who reads me.
This is where you come in. See… I’m planning to cheat. Yup. I’m a cheater-cheater-pumpkin-eater. Rather than devouring through past comments here and blog-hopping and all the stuff that’s USUALLY involved in creating a comprehensive blogroll, I’m going to just ask you to leave me a comment with your link. Now… those of you who have been around since way back in my blogspot days will have an automatic link if you were linked up there. (To peruse that ancient, way out-of-date blogroll, click here.)
Now don’t be shy. You want a link? Just ask for it. If you don’t ask for it (and you weren’t on that above-mentioned blogroll) then chances are very good that you won’t get a link. Because I’m just not that organized.
So, to lighten the mood around here, I’m throwing in an encore of what was quite possibly my favorite post from my old blog. That’s right, folks. Prepare yourselves for “I Think I’ll Link You.” I’m channeling David Cassidy now… And you KNOW how I love me some David Cassidy!
I’m blogging
And right in the middle of a good post
Like all at once I read up
On someone that leaves comments on my site.
With all my heart and might I set my fingers on the keys,
I’ll try not to feel the squeeze
As I type out words like these:
“I think I’ll link you!”
This blogroll
Is getting long and lengthy
I didn’t know how to deal with
And so I just decided to myself
I’d put limits on myself and never link another
And didn’t I go and write it
When I typed your URL.
“I think I’ll link you!”
I think I’ll link you.
So what am I so afraid of?
I’m afraid that I’m not sure of
A blogroll there’s no room for.
I think I’ll link you.
Isn’t that what blogs are made of?
Though it worries me to see
That you haven’t yet linked me!
I don’t know where to comment next.
I don’t know who to learn about.
I got so much to blog about.
Hey!!!!!!!
I think I’ll link you.
So what am I so afraid of?
I’m afraid that I’m not sure of
A blogroll there’s no room for.
I think I’ll link you.
Isn’t that what blogs are made of?
Though it worries me to see
You haven’t yet linked me!
Believe me,
You really don’t have to tag me.
I only want to read your MEME
And if you say,
“Hey, go away,” I will, but I think better still
I’d better comment and not lurk you.
Will you offer me some hope?
Of getting linked on your blogroll?
Do you think you’ll link me?
I think I’ll link you.
Oh, I think I’ll link you.
Oh, I think I’ll link you.
Oh, I think I’ll link you.
Oh, I think I’ll link you.
Oh, I think I’ll link you.
Oh, I think I’ll link you.
Oh, I think I’ll link you.
Oh, I think I’ll link you.
Today, I turn 30. I’m not a kid anymore. No, in fact, I’m a big fat old lady. Sigh. I guess I’ll just roll over and die. No— wait. I’ll roll over and die TOMORROW, after I’ve opened my presents, spent my birthday money, and eaten ALL THE CAKE.
At the end of my mission, just before I turned 21, the Elders were making bets that I’d be married by age 22. I vowed that I would NOT get married until I was thirty.
Hahaha. And 8 years and 4 children later…
30! That’s huge! There are several people who will truly be shocked that I’ve managed to stay alive this long!
So Happy Birthday to MEEEEEE!!!! Yippeeeee! Thirty is gonna be a good year. I can feel it in my old, decrepit, aged, osteoperosis-ed bones.
For those of you who said, “I’m guessing that Brillig is at the Highland’s Ranch Public Library,” you would be correct.
Because I still don’t have internet at my house.
And yet my heart is still beating…
…faintly.
This is the first time I’ve been in front of a computer since the last post I wrote two weeks ago!!! I’ve missed you SO MUCH!!! Oh, and the title of my post? Completely true. That’s AFTER deleting the spam. So… yeah. It’s gonna be a while before I get back to all my dear ones. But I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all the thoughts and love in my absence!
Oh. So, get this. Guess where my oldest two kids are!
Go on. Guess.
If you said, “I bet they’re in school because school here is year-round and the first day of the new school year was TODAY,” you’d be correct again.
Yup. July 9th is the first day of the school year. Holy crap.
So, that’s what I’ve been doing for the last two weeks, besides the whole, oh, MOVING thing. I’ve been racing to get my kids ready for school. I had NO IDEA that they’d be starting today when I first got here. A kind neighbor let me in on that little secret a few days after we arrived here. WOWZERS. I was stunned! I thought I had till September—or at least August. So, I’ve been racing around getting Bubba all of his immunizations and paper work in for Kindergarten and Fluffy’s school records transferred, etc. Oh, and shopping for the TEN BILLION items on their “school supplies” lists. And spending way too much money on new clothes for them. It’s crazy, but it’s also good. I’m happy because THEY are SO HAPPY! And they were SO cute in their brand new clothes with their brand new back packs. Oh, I could just die of cuteness. Seriously. Dying here.
Okay, that doesn’t really catch you up, but at least you know that I’m thinking about you and missing you. I really will start reading my email— when I don’t have children strapped into a stroller screaming.
(Yeah—they JUST threw me out of the grown-ups section of the library because my kids were so loud. THEY THREW ME OUT! It’s been a long time since I’ve felt quite this… um… embarrassed. I think my face was purple. But I’m over it now—and writing to you from the CHILDREN’s section of the library, where my kids can scream and they fit right in. I, however, look a bit awkward on the little tiny chair in the little child-size cubby that I’m writing you from. hahahahahaha.)
Join us next week (oh, gosh, please let it be sooner than that!) when the Brillig gang will hopefully have joined the 21st century and have internet in their very own home…
(And I know that a few of you are wondering about your guest-posts, since I kinda left you hanging. I’ve received them and they’ll be published as soon as I can get that organized. Thanks again for playing along with the guest bloggity blogness-ness!)
Well, this is it. I’m shutting down this computer. I’m moving all my files to a jump drive. I’m burning all my music onto CD.
This is, obviously, the final step.
The U-haul is loaded. Fully packed. Done.
The house is… mostly clean. Still a few projects. But basically, we’re done.
Tomorrow we drive to our halfway mark. The next day, around midday, we arrive at our new house.
I can hardly believe it.
For those of you who have been reading my blog for a while, you know that I’ve been in limbo for a very, very long time. In fact, I started blogging in March of ‘07 from my Mother-in-law’s basement, where I was living while I was trying to figure out the next step in my housing issues.
It’s almost over.
Of course, it’s not over yet. Two more days. Two more painful, exhausting days. And then? Well, then there’s the unpacking. But I’m not thinking about that yet. Nope. I’m only thinking about my pretty new house.
Mine.
What does this mean for us? For you and me? Well, it means that I will be offline for a bit. Who knows how long. Once we’re moved in, we’ll have to get a wireless connection set up. Who knows when that will actually happen. So, if you don’t hear from me, don’t fret. Don’t scream. Don’t think that the U-haul tipped over somewhere in the tippy tops of the Rocky Mountains and that I’m stranded. While that would make for a better blog-post, I assure you that it will not be the reason for my absence.
In the meantime, remain merry. I can’t wait to catch up on your lives. When I’m settled and up and running, you’ll be the first to know.
Hej, I’m JM! I blog sporatically over at Jan vs. Wild (janvswild.blogspot.com). I’m a 25-year old astronomer, originally from the US, but currently living in Denmark where “Jan” is exclusively a boy’s name. But, I am in fact a girl. There is no end to the fun my name has caused. I have been reading Brillig’s blog forever, but being a lazy lurker, I never actually made contact with her to tell her how cool I think she is. So this guest post can be my way of fixing that. Brillig is awesome! There, I finally said it. Now, down to brass tacks…
I had this super-awesome idea for a post for Brillig’s blog, but then I got bogged down writing a HUGE astronomy paper which is due shortly, and I didn’t have time to write the amazing post I had imagined. So, instead I decided to just edit a recent email into a less-than-brilliant, but hopefully somewhat passable post instead. Here goes:
Today I was looking for a good recipe for yeast rolls, and I was getting so frustrated with all the recipes that say “one stick butter.” Me being me, I blamed all Americans and ranted to my brother “I hate how Americans think that everyone in the world is just like them! Does it not occur to anyone that maybe butter isn’t sold in the same sized “sticks” everywhere in the world?! Couldn’t they put a real measurement like “1/4 cup” or something?” (I realize that would still be ambiguous to those people here in Europe that measure in grams and such.) Then we started talking about how so many recipes call for “one package yeast” and how we have only ever bought yeast in packages weighing a pound or more, so making the conversion to tablespoons or something was also frustrating. Honestly, I STILL have no idea exactly how much a “package” of yeast is….
Eventually these somewhat trivial topics led to a discussion about how so many people don’t even realize that maybe other peoples’ lives are different than theirs. It doesn’t even occur to them, so they don’t think about it. My brother works in accessibility and he said “that’s the biggest challenge with accessibility and the whole disability thing, is just getting people to recognize that not everybody in the world is exactly like them.” They always say not to judge someone until you have “walked a mile in their shoes,” and I totally believe that. I think if everyone made an effort to think about other people’s situations, and wonder if maybe they were fundamentally different in some way, there would be fewer arguments, fights, misunderstandings, wars, etc. One of my favorite songs has a verse that says, “In the quiet heart is hidden sorrow that the eye can’t see.” I just love this. I think if we could all see the sorrows that were hidden in others’ hearts, we would interact with them so differently. Maybe we wouldn’t get quite so annoyed with the bank teller than was short with us, or get mad when the guy ahead of us on the road cut us off, or whatever.
My brother and I concluded that one of the biggest problems in the world is that so many people assume everyone uses “sticks of butter” and “packages of yeast” and so even though they aren’t necessarily “bad” people, they just don’t understand when something is different than the way they think it is, or the way they have always known. So they react in perhaps a negative way. I always thought the word “awareness” was mostly just a buzzword, and most people who used it didn’t even really know what they were talking about, but I think now I understand what it means, or should mean.
So, I shall end this post with a challenge for everyone to try to increase their “awareness.” Be it awareness of a disability, of a struggle someone else is going through, of a difference in measurement systems between countries, or something else entirely. I promise it will change the way you interact with people. At least, it did for me.
Let me apologize if this post seems a little incoherant or choppy. I hope it makes sense. I am in the middle of writing a paper (whoo-hoo) and just took a break to finish this before I forgot about it. Thanks for reading!!!
Hi, I’m Cheryl from over at A Little Chaos Theory. I have three sons, one husband, three cats, two dogs, and a revolving array of fish (although we have none right now and my husband is currently growing lettuce in the fish tank). I’m a full-time mom, full-time student, full-time wife, full-time lunatic. And my family is planning on a cross-country move this summer. We make a habit out of those; this will be our 4th since my 7-year-old was born and we can’t even blame it on the military.
I want to start by thanking Brillig for the opportunity to write on her blog. I’m sure goat herders in the Swiss Alps could hear squeals of glee when I opened the email with the date for my very own guest spot. The challenge would be deciding what to write about while providing some sort of cohesive whole to the post. Would I write about school? Moving? The challenges of autism? Road trips with kids? There were so many possibilities for one guest post.
Giddy with ideas for potential blog articles I very carefully marked the guest post date on my Outlook calendar and promptly forgot about it in the midst of my usual flurry of juggling way too many activities for one person. And Outlook didn’t help because the computer I was using back when Brillig sent out her gracious email died (just when all my final papers for the quarter were due sending me into school overload – but that’s a story for another day). I enjoyed the guest posts that scrolled across my reader (as well as the posts where Brillig actually had time to write something) and it wasn’t until June 21st when I realized that wowza, it’s time to send in MY post. And I had no idea what to say. The profound words that I just knew were there didn’t want to surface.
As I sat staring at my monitor I was saved by my toddler. He entered the room with a woebegone expression, his dishwater blonde hair a lovely shade of reddish pink because his brother had poured Gatorade over his head.
Mommy: Why did you pour Gatorade on Roegen?
Jude: Because he wasn’t napping.
While I was talking with Jude about how it is my job to keep his brothers in their beds if that is where they need to be (he desperately wants to be a parent which scares me – that’s been what he wants to be when he grows up for several months now and I devoutly hope that he outgrows that wish before he’s a teenager), Breydon came running into the room waving a tooth. It’s the third baby tooth he’s lost, but I didn’t even know one was loose this time.
So we had to find an envelope for him to put the tooth into so that the Tooth Fairy can leave him a dollar coin tonight. Breydon’s hoping that this one will have John Tyler’s picture on it but he’ll have to make due with Thomas Jefferson.
In the midst of the tooth excitement, while Jude was screaming about being on the naughty wall, Roegen came running up with a pair of Elmo underwear on his head.
Mommy: We can get you your own Elmo underwear when you go potty on the potty.
Roegen: I don’t want to.
Then the dogs started barking.
This is my life. The words may not be profound but I treasure it nonetheless.
1. I’m listening to INXS’s “Never Tear Us Apart” and laughing about how when I was a kid I thought the song said, “they could never tell us apart.”
2. We close on our house in Denver (Highland’s Ranch, to be specific— a delightful little suburb in the southern metro area) on Wednesday. We picked the one with the deck, view, and yard. All the T’s are crossed, the I’s are dotted, it appears that this is actually going to happen. I know! It only took, oh, TWO MONTHS LONGER than it was supposed to. But I’m grateful.
3. I was able to actually SEE said house last weekend. Yup. I loaded four kiddos into the minivan and drove the eight hours on narrow, winding roads across the Rockies… on three hours of sleep, no less. Possibly not the smartest thing I ever did, but hey! I lived! We met up with that hot hubby of mine that night and stayed with him at my brother’s house– my brother and his fam were in Hawaii, so they offered to let us crash there in the meantime. It was wonderful, though a bit hectic since Chris’s house is SPOTLESS and my children are… um… not good at spotless. Neither am I, for that matter. Anyway, we saw the house (and the others that we passed up on… or lost to the STUPID FRICKIN’ BRACKIN’ BRACKIN’ FRICKEN’ STUPID Federal Government— but I’m over it, can’t you tell?) and I was almost surprised that I actually LIKED it! Some things will have to be dealt with, of course. A loft will have to be converted into a bedroom (by simply adding a wall)— apparently we’re not in Utah anymore, and they don’t make houses (in my meager price range) with enough bedrooms for families like mine. Also, the cabinetry in the house is a gorgeous cherry wood, but the previous owners painted the kitchen red. Now, I really have no problem with a red kitchen—I’ve done that myself in the past. But this makes the cabinets blend right into the walls and therefore the beautiful woodwork is entirely lost. And we can’t have that. No, we can’t. So, I shall wield a mighty paint brush and transform it to a rich buttermilk color… or something. Okay, I’m rambling. Done now. But besides those little tiny changes that will need to be made, it’s the perfect house for our little clan and I’m excited.
4. While in Colorado, I went to church in what will be my new ward (congregation). When I got to Relief Society (the women’s group), I was asked to introduce myself. “I’m a writer,” I said. I think it may be the first time I’ve ever actually said that out loud in public. I felt like such a poser. I mean, I AM a writer, right? And yet… what exactly have I written? I don’t know. It just feels wrong to claim a particular talent that I may or may not have. Still, maybe if I say it out loud in the mirror every day— like a daily affirmation— then it will be true. In the meantime, though, you may call me Brilli-Vanilli. A total poser, who doesn’t deserve the title I apparently claim.
In fairness, though, I’ve been working on my book a lot, despite the mass chaos in my life. I have a story I like, characters that I care about (or hate, in a few cases). I’m still trying to find my voice— that’s been an interesting process. I went through a mind-shift, like, “I must put away the blogger in me and be the YA fiction-er.” I was working that way for a while, but I didn’t like it. It’s not me. Last night I thought, “I was told to write a book because people like my blogging. What if I can’t actually write a book? Or… maybe I should write a book with the same voice that I write my blog!” So I’m working on that angle now. I’ve re-vamped everything and made my voice sound a little more like my voice sounds here. I’m not sure it’s working. How on earth would I know? I mean, it’s not like I’m a writer or anything, right? Wait…
5. I then drove home from Denver. By myself. With four kids. Four very young kids.
6. …And I arrived home to an excessively messy house, full of half-packed boxes. Everyone’s belongings are strewn all over the house, including mine. I have less than a week to get this stuff in order. I know, I know. I’ve had two months to get all of this done. But keep in mind that I’ve been Single Mother to four little tiny ones with very big needs. Plus, I haven’t had an exit date until now, and how could I possibly have known what to pack if I didn’t know when I was leaving? But now. Oh now. The mind-bloggling insanity begins. I have no idea—NONE— how I’m going to do this. If you looked at my house right now, you’d think that a burglar came in and ransacked the place, desperately searching for some hidden treasure, and when no treasure was found (unless you count the endless supply of hotwheels…) he trashed the place out of anger. Can you picture it? Really, I’m afraid that my neighbors are about to call the police. It will be embarrassing to have to explain that actually it was just me. *I think I can, I think I can, I think I can…*
7. My husband just hung up on me. I’m pretty sure it was an accident. Then again, I was being REALLY obnoxious. Then again, he was laughing his head off. That’s one of the things I love most about that man— he thinks I’m hilarious. Wait. Perhaps he really DID laugh his head all the way off, and his ridiculous bluetooth ear piece fell to the ground and hung up on me. Seriously, though, people. What is UP with the freakiliciousness of those bluetooth ear pieces? It turns my hot hubby into an icky-looking sci-fi creature.
I don’t like icky-looking sci-fi creatures.
All sci-fi creatures are icky looking.
Not a fan of sci-fi.
Moving on…
8. He hasn’t called me back yet.
9. My angelic mother-in-law is taking the kids all day tomorrow. Wow. Now I can sit around and watch The N all day. Yeah…
10. I’ve been nominated for a few awards. I know. How crazy is that? I’d be honored if you’d vote for me… (Meaning, I will hunt you down and attack you with a plastic butter knife if I don’t see your name next to the list of people who’ve voted for me. Don’t think that I won’t.) Just click the little image and it will take you there:
This is the one I like the sound of the best:
Or, though I don’t call myself a “mommy blogger” I’d be okay if YOU call me one:
11. Now I have Milli Vanilli songs stuck in my head. “It’s… a… tragedy for me to see-ee the dream is over! And I never will forget… the day we met. Girl, I’m gonna miss you!” Haha! Now YOU have Milli Vanilli songs stuck in YOUR head!
Oh my gosh, this is a YouTube moment if I ever heard one. Go on. Click play and remember how much you liked these guys…
Sigh. I’ll admit it. I still love them.
12. Going now. Thanks for staying with me. Remember that Soap Opera Sunday is over at Kate’s for “the duration.” And thanks again to my awesome guest-posters, every one of whom as come through for me in a huge way these last couple of weeks. We’ve got just a few more for you this week! And then I’ll have to go back to actually blogging MYSELF! What the…?
Hi everyone. My name is Karlene and I live over on Inksplasher. [link: www.inksplasher.blogspot.com] I’ve been blogging since January 2006. I met Brillig at a blogger luncheon several months ago. I guess that makes me one of the few who’ve actually seen Brillig’s gorgeous eyes and eyebrows in person. Brillig is just as fun and entertaining in real life as she is here on her blog. I’m excited to have the wonderful opportunity to be a guest blogger here—my only claim to fame.
A little history about me: I’ve worked as a writer, editor and publisher at various times in my life. Now I’m taking it a little easy and doing freelance copy editing and book design, layout and other pre-press work. I also blog a lot. The coolest thing in my life, however, is that I became a grandmother last year. Grandson #1 just turned 1 year old; grandson #2 is almost 7 months. I’ll be gaining a granddaughter in August when my son marries a sweet girl with a 2 year old. I do “Grandma Day” once a week when I tend my two grandsons all day. It’s tiring, but lots of fun. It’s with this in mind that I wrote the following post.
Grandmother’s Hands
I don’t know why the image of your hands comes to me this morning, but I see them, folded together, resting on your kitchen table, right-hand fingers embracing the left hand, slowly rubbing, stroking, kneading. Do they hurt? Is it arthritis, that dull cold ache of bone against bone that I sometimes feel in my own hands?
You open your hands, stretching your fingers out flat, pressing them onto the tablecloth. I can see little ribbed drawings of apples and oranges playing peek-a-boo with me between your fingers—the pattern of the plastic tablecloth.
Your hands are bare but for the single, thin, gold band on your left hand—the symbol of your love for Pappaw, your commitment to the eternal family, your devotion to the family the two of you created that grew from two, to six, to sixteen, to thirty-seven and 7/8ths.
Are you proud of that? As you look down at us from heaven, are you pleased with who we have become, who we are becoming? Or does your heart ache over our weaknesses?
Your nails are short, but not too short. They stop just at the tips of your fingers, a thin white crescent at both top and bottom. They are smooth but unpolished, unbuffed. No pretensions here. They are working hands, practical hands.
Your hands are creamy tan, covered with the darker spots of age. Liver spots, some call them. I prefer to think of them as medals of honor, hard won through life’s trials, markers of wisdom gained, experiences shared; the many wrinkles that criss-cross the back of your hand and gather in clumps around your knuckles are ribbons awarded for effort and endurance.
Your hands reach across the table, across the worlds between us, and clasp mine. They are softened by love and warm with courage and strength. Your hands give mine a squeeze that says everything—how much you love me, how you’re there for me even when you’re so far away, how you’re proud of me no matter what I’ve done, or do. You give my hands another squeeze and a pat, glad that I understand. Your hands grip my fingers tight, as if by force of will alone you could push all the wisdom and knowledge and experience from your hands into mine, to make them stronger, warmer, softer.
The pressure of your hands begins to lessen as they gradually fade away. My hands are all alone now, folded together on your table, right-hand fingers embracing the left, stroking, kneading, as if to convince myself that it is okay, that my hands are up to the task ahead, whatever it may be.
My hands are not as bare as hers. I wear two rings, symbols of my family—all nine and 7/8ths of them—and my faith in the God she taught me to love. My nails are short, but not too short. They fit well on practical hands, working hands. I have a few wrinkles and medals of honor of my own. A few scars, each with a memory of experience archived, lessons learned.
My grandson cries out as he wakes from his nap. I spread my hands out on the table, fingers wide as I push myself up to go get him. I watch my hands reach into his crib, pick him up, gently stroke the damp hair away from his face. His smooth and chubby hands reach up to grab my older spotted ones. He chews my knuckle. I feel the wrinkles move and the loose skin provides padding between his gums, soothing the pain of teething.
This is not a conscious act on my part, nor his. It is automatic, instinctual, bonding the hearts between the generations. I am glad for the hands I have, so much like my grandmother’s, yet still my own. I am proud of each spot, each scar, each wrinkle.
I look at my grandson, still biting at my fingers. He smiles at me and in the moment of that smile I know that I will always love him, always be proud of him despite the challenges and weaknesses he might face in his future. That is a grandmother’s job. That is my job—to reach across the table and give his hands a squeeze and a pat as they earn the scars and the spots and the wrinkles that will define him, that are his very own.
Please welcome the always hilarious and fantastic Jenny of Absolutely Bananas!
———————-
When Brillig asked if anyone would like to guest blog for her, I raised my hand with excitement. “Pick me! Pick me!” I shouted, (as much as you can shout in the comment section), “I want to do it!” Deep inside me I could FEEL this burning, broiling THING that needed to get out. This was my chance to write about whatever I wanted in a place where no one who knew me in real life would ever see it.
I have things to say!!!
So Brillig signed me up to guest post.
And I promptly forgot what I so urgently wanted to blog about.
I find myself stewing over THE GUEST POST. What will I write? What do I say? Why all this pressure? You may be asking, Brillig’s a stand-up kind of gal. She won’t fault you for giving her something less than your best. A movie review? Funny anecdote? Rant about the weather? All fine with Brillig, I’m sure.
And I’m sure you’re right.
But here’s the thing. Having the opportunity to write a post on someone else’s blog is big. Really big. HUGE.
Every. Single. Time. that I sit down to blog, I am haunted by the awareness that THIS POST (along with the other 5,432) will be delivered directly via email to my Father. And there’s this little voice that never shuts up whispering in my brain, “Do you really want him to read that?”
Then there’s the knowledge that every week my mother-in-law sits down at her computer, puts on her reading glasses, and peers into the screen and directly at my blog. There go another 201 topics, right out the window.
And if that wasn’t enough, my mom is certain to call with concerned tone if I blog anything that seems to be at all sad, angry, or despondent.
“I read your post, honey,” she’ll say, “and here’s what I think.”
And good though her intentions might be, I DON’T WANT TO KNOW WHAT SHE THINKS.
I DON’T WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT!!!
MY BLOG IS NOT A LAUNCH PAD FOR DEEP AND MEANINGFUL CONVERSATIONS!!!
Then, like my own personal demons, there are the hoards of ex-coworkers, neighbors, relatives, friends, friends-of-friends, enemies, playground acquaintances and MORE.
AAAGGGHHHH THE PRESSURE!!!
Do you feel the pressure?
Cause I’m feeling the pressure.
There’s many good things about having an “open” blog. Like, for example, you don’t write mean things about people, which they later find and hate you for. Then there’s the fact that people sort of “get” what you’re doing and “support” you in their own special ways.
But there are definitely the moments where I would give my right leg and maybe my left one too for the chance to blog in total anonymity.
How freeing would it be to be able to say whatever I want?!
The problem with freedom is that, without walls and restrictions and guidelines, you get bogged down by the available possibilities such that you can’t think of a single thing to say.
And then you’re stuck, right back where you started.
Hmmph.
Jenny is an award-winning TV-watcher, peanut-butter-from-the-jar eater and chore-avoider who usually can be found blogging at Absolutely Bananas and Seattle Mom Blogs.
Ok, ok, so she actually didn’t win awards for any of those things. But she should have. She definitely should have.
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