Rage, Rage Against the Building of a Blog

Writing a letter to myself as a part of this awesome blogfest, How I Found the Write Path, really made me think about how much I didn't know, how much I thought I knew, and how much I still have to learn.

I quickly typed out a letter to myself about networking and how it is a necessary evil. It's not evil for every writer, of course, but for me. I am an introvert. That's being kind. But I learned that I had to put myself out there. It was horrifying.

Talking to people. Going to conferences. Joining social media. Promoting myself. 

Words like "Social Media" and "Platform" and "Brand" assaulted my poor, sensitive introvert ears. I didn't know exactly what these things were but I knew enough to know I didn't want to do any of it. I just wanted to hide in my room with a cup of tea and type away whatever characters were bugging me at the moment to be written about. Or slump in my chair with a glass of wine and write about a real-life scene that just happened at my house. 

Something I heard a lot about was blogging. "You have to have a blog." Ah. I knew more about blogs so this one was easier. No. I would not blog. Never frickin' ever. No.

Then, after much crying and complaining, I started a blog. And I read about blogging. "This is how you blog." "This is NOT how you blog." "This is how you get more followers on your blog." "You're blogging the wrong way." "You're not using all the tools available to you for your blog." Blah, blah, blog, blog.

I almost erased myself. Sounds menacing, eh? I made a list of all the sites I was on and systematically deleted accounts. I had been on Twitter for only a month and I hovered over the 'delete account' button. Kidding. What I really did was search in vain for how to delete myself and couldn't find it. Also, Facebook wouldn't let me delete myself for some reason. I'm still waiting for it to go away. And then I turned to my blasted blog and was two seconds away from deleting that, too.

Of course, since I'm blabbing at you here, that didn't happen. I'm writing and posting. I have a blog. I'm not sure how I feel about it but I have one. And it keeps me writing weekly regardless of what's going on in my life. I blog. I'm getting out there. Sort of.


Why do you blog? Why did you start? Did someone tell you you had to or did you decide to do it yourself? Do you enjoy it? 

Irony and Versatility

This is quite ironic. Two funny things about the title of this award: The Versatile Blogger

1. I’m not sure I consider myself a blogger (I have a blog but don't really consider myself in the same company as the many talented "bloggers" out there.)

2. I just had a conversation with my husband about my versatility as a writer (I'm a Lifetstyle writer who also writes flash fiction and satire pieces while working on my creative nonfiction and some children's' books. So some could consider me flighty while other, nicer people, like my husband, would say I'm versatile.)

Anyway, here I am with this Versatile Blogger Award thanks to the lovely and talented Anne Goodwin who writes at annethology. Thank you, Anne!

And because I procrastinate and love stressing myself out, I didn’t finish this and now have been given this award again by the amazing Lisa Reiter who writes beautiful stuff at Sharing the Story and challenges other writers by inviting them to participate in her Bite Size Memoirs. Thank you, Lisa!

I consider myself lucky to have met both of these wonderful women.

Versatile Blogger Award

For this award, the deal is as follows:

• Thank the person who gave you this award. Include a link to their blog.
• Nominate 15 bloggers for the Versatile Blogger Award and include a link to their sites. (This is my next step and will be done without much delay. As Anne writes in this blog post, acceptance is optional.)
• Tell everyone 7 things about yourself.

So, down to it then. Seven secrets about me that you all are simply dying to know. Okay, since I write about myself, some of these aren’t very secret but whatever. Here goes:

1. My natural hair color is (was) blond but I colored it brown. When I became pregnant, I stopped coloring my hair and it grew in almost the exact shade I was coloring it. (Except for the purple streak…that’s colored. And wicked cool.)

2. I love essential oils and use them almost every day. Lavender is my favorite.

3. I still believe in fairies. (We have fairy doors in our home and build fairy houses in our yard. Though they don't look as beautiful as this one.)

From "Fairy Houses Everywhere"
by Barry & Tracy Kane

4. I love herbal tea. I have so much that it takes up two shelves in my kitchen and I buy it in bulk.

5. I fell off a stone at Avebury and landed in nettle. (And took my dear friend down in the process.)

6. I got stuck in a phone booth in Paris with a mime outside.

I have no picture for this.
Would you really want to witness my pain in that way?

7. I have a bag in my car at all times filled with blankets, clothing, and Dunkin' Donuts gift cards so I can give items or food to someone who needs it.

And the award goes to...

As Anne and Geoff both say, some people may feel like this is a chain-letter type of award, and as such I will repeat that this is an optional acceptance. Geoff really explains it well in this post.

Okay... I did it! Fifteen bloggers. They are all awesome and there's quite a variety here so sure to be something for everyone. :-) Please check them out. 

Kristen at Little Lodestar

Loni Townsend at Squirrel Talk

Cristina at Filling My Prayer Closet  

Pete at Father Knows Little

Robin L. Flanigan at The Kinetic Pen  

B.A. Wilson Writes 

Casey Rose at Casey On Purpose

Keely Hutton at Writer's Dojo  

Elena Linville at Tower of Winds

Shane King at Shangel's Reviews (A must for BtVS and Angel fans.)

Amanda at Gun in Act One  

Georgia Bell at Unbound (All Good Things)

Three lovely ladies who tackle the topic and issues of giftedness each in her own way. Bravo to all of you for helping kids, teachers, and families. 

Jade Rivera   

Colleen Kessler at Raising Lifelong Learners   

Celi Trepanier at Crushing Tall Poppies 

I'm going to go ahead and include The Grimm Report in my nominations because, even though they are more of a collection of articles, they do reside online and therefore qualify (technically). And they are extraordinarily versatile with all the stories and voices from the different contributors as well as the amazing podcasts.

My Little Mr. Men

My kids could not be any different if they tried.

My 9-yr-old

My 9-yr-old is disorganized, loud, messy, and forgetful. He loves sports, running, jumping, throwing, stomping, and any event held at a place packed with screaming kids.

When I ask Mr. Messy to clean his room, he picks up a book that's right in front of him, leaving the dirty socks, snotty tissues, pencils, paper airplanes, and Lego pieces littering his floor.

"Hey, thanks for picking up your book, kiddo. How about that puzzle, your hotwheels, the crumpled-up hoodie, the twelve pencils?"

"Oh. I didn't see them."

Huh? Yes. And, after years of living this, I know he's actually being serious. He doesn't notice it. I have to turn heel and run. The mess hurts my head.

My 7-yr-old is orderly, quiet, neat, with a memory that rivals my laptop. He loves playing the piano, dancing, karate, and any production held at a small venue with quiet grown-ups.

My 7-yr-old

When I ask him to clean his room... Ha! Kidding. That's never happened. I'm not sure when, or even if, he's ever learned the saying, "a place for everything, and everything in its place" but he lives it. Since he was two years old, he's put his books back on the shelf (upright, spines facing out), grouped by color, size, or subject.

So when I ask Mr. Perfect to eat his dinner, he moves his cup ever-so-slightly closer to his plate and adjusts his napkin. Then he begins.

"What if I moved your cup here," I grab his drink and put it on the other side of his plate.

"I'll move it back," he smiles.

"What if I say you can't do that? You have to eat your meal with your cup on the other side?"

"I don't think I can eat if it's on the wrong side," he answers.

Wrong side? Yes. I know. After years with this one, I know that when the cup thing is over, it will be something else. So I let him have his desired cup position.

But I have to draw the line sometimes. I have to fight with my kids. Mr. Messy has to clean his room when things begin moving on their own, you know? And Mr. Perfect has to deal with his day when things aren't exactly the way he needs them to be.

Yes, my little Mr. Men. They drive me batty. They make me worry. But, regardless of how long I can tolerate the mess or the perfection, they make me happy. And, more importantly, with their quirks and ridiculously different personalities, both of my kids are happy. And, if there is only one thing I can say about them that is alike, that is the thing I want to be able to say. 

My little Mr. Men 

The Day I Decided To Dye

I am participating in Diane DeBella’s I Am Subject project. This project showcases women's stories about when or how they reclaimed their lives. There are many stories, many voices. Here is my #iamsubject story:

When I was young, I was blond. 

A pretty, little schoolgirl with pigtails and blue eyes. My grandmother’s “doll”, my mother’s only daughter, my teachers’ cute student, my ballet instructor’s graceful dancer. They loved to see me happy. So I smiled. 

I tried to be the girl they saw.

As I grew, my hair did, too. Long. Stick straight. Still bright blond. I was cast in the lead of the elementary school play, placed front row center in my class picture in a different color chair than all the other kids, thrown into spotlights when all I wanted was to hide in the shadows. I was confused and shy. People seemed to like me that way. So I stayed. 

I tucked my discomfort away.
 
As a teenager, the “dumb blond” stereotype brought some twisted form of admiration. It got me invited to the cool parties and landed me a job as a beer girl. I earned a great hourly wage laughing and handing out t-shirts, koozies, and blinking buttons to bar-hoppers. So I acted. 

I tanked my grades and found acceptance in stupidity.

In a moment of defiance, during which I realized my life was not mine, I dyed my hair brown—a tiny slice of time, a small act of defiance. I saw this as so much more. It was me rebelling against everything people thought I was and wanted me to be. 

I wasn't that girl anymore.

Reactions ranged from disbelief to disapproval. Family was shocked. Friends asked why I would get rid of my blond hair. People told me I used to be pretty. My soon-to-be-ex said it looked awful. 

I had never felt more beautiful.  

Then I met my perfect. He had everything I could have dreamed of plus a bit more. I became pregnant and stopped coloring my hair. I expected bizarre-looking roots to start showing. My blond growing in. I was going to be a pregnant skunk. I laughed at the thought. But I swore I would get rid of the blond the minute I got home from the hospital.  

I didn't have to.

My hair grew in a different shade—shiny, beautiful…brown. I had my son. A gorgeous boy with brown hair and blue eyes who looked exactly like his mother. As many new moms do, I spent countless hours staring at my new baby. He tugged at something deep within me. The child I never got to be. The mother I wasn’t sure I could be. 

I had watched women disappear into motherhood, losing themselves in the responsibility of raising a child.

The thing that might have taken away my sense of self broke me out of the shell I had lived in and gave me the self I wasn’t aware I was searching for. The baby, who forced me into the role of mother, helped me define who I was as a woman. Someone I didn’t know. Someone I liked. 

A smart, strong, sarcastic, loving brunette. 

Marytr Mom

I swore I'd never be a martyr mom.

When the gorgeous purple streak faded from my hair and my feet looked like they belonged to a hobbit, I brushed it off. "It's only a streak." "It's just a pedicure."

When I started cancelling appointments for myself but keeping the ones for my children, I explained it away. "The kids need haircuts. I can throw my hair up in a ponytail." "The kids have to go to the dentist. My teeth are fine."

When the slow decline of my hygiene become undeniable, I hung on for dear life. "He had soccer, I didn't have time to shower." "He had karate, I didn't have time to shower." "The house was a mess, I didn't have time to shower." Geez, woman! Clean yourself!

Okay, so I've had the occasional martyr moment, not getting a haircut for 3 months 7 months but making sure my kids went every few weeks. Buying the boys new socks, sneakers, and pajamas while I jammed my feet into smelly, dingy Sketchers.

But, after two weeks of being sick, and losing my voice completely, I still hadn't seen a doctor. I decided I should go and, three days later, when it was convenient for everyone else (my husband took the kids out), I went.

"How long have you had a sore throat?" the doctor asked.

"Two weeks," I squeaked.

So my "cold" turned out to be a double ear infection, bronchitis, and sinus infection.

"You shouldn't have waited," he said.

"I have kids..."

Noooooo!

I said it. Can't take it back. I can yell (when I get my voice back) that I am NOT a martyr mom but really all I can say after what happened last week is:

"HELL, YEAH I AM!"

I'm a full-on Martyr Mom.

How about you? Are you a martyr mom? 
(Or dad...?)

Losing My Voice and Gaining Perspective

So now that spring is finally truly here with the sunshine and warm weather, I got sick. Whatever. Head cold. It will be over in a few days. No big. 

That didn't happen. Here's what did.

Sparing you the gory details, I've had this bloody thing for over a week and now have lost my voice. Saturday was kinda cool. I was walking around with sick voice. You can't duplicate that so I figured I'd take advantage of it, you know, doing Darth Vader impressions and recording "Redrum. Redrum!" on my phone. It was wicked fun. Which tells you a little about my life.

But yesterday...I woke up and couldn't speak.

Oh, yeah. It's all fun and games until someone loses a voice.

As I was scribbling away on a notepad for my husband and kids, I realized how quickly I speak. My hand simply couldn't keep up with my thoughts. It was infuriating. I started flailing around and, of course, nobody could figure out what I was trying to mime. I'm very bad at charades. I quit talking, writing, and miming.

Then I noticed something.

The house, my house with my husband and two little boys was quiet. I know my husband asked them to keep it down so I could rest, but, seriously. Quietness was invading my house like a noxious gas. It was weird. Creepy, even. I hate when my kids get hyper and loud. Those two small kids can sound like a herd of stampeding buffalo. It's bad. Oh, the noise, noise, noise, noise!

But I realized how much my own voice (raised over the din) adds to the noise here. This is something that probably, in retrospect, should have been obvious to me but, alas, here I am writing about my epiphany.

My house (without my constant "settle down", "calm down", "keep it down") was a quieter place. I am a contributor to the noise that I hate. Also, my mind races and I pretty much say what's on my mind.

To summarize, I lost my voice and realized I need to slow down and be quiet.

Try not talking for an hour. Just one hour. (Maybe 20 minutes.) What happens? Are you frustrated? Relaxed? What about the other members of your house? Are they quieter or louder without your direction?

Mother's Day Dilemma

There are two schools of thought regarding Mother's Day:

• I am spending every second of this day with my children.  
• I wouldn't go near my kids today if you paid me!

A) It's Mother's Day. That's me! I'm a mother. And I want to celebrate motherhood by being with my kids-- playing games with them, talking to them, going out to eat with them, and hugging them. A lot. After all, my children are the reason I get to celebrate this day in the first place.

B) This is my day. I am going to soak in a bubble bath, pick up the book I've been meaning to read for two months, drink a glass of wine on the porch, and relax. After all, it's a day meant for me so someone else can take care of the kids and house today.

For some, this is a simple decision. For others, we bounce between the two options.

Notice the "we"? Because I'm one of those moms who want a little from column A and a bit from column B.

I want to be around my kids. I want to play cards or Candy Land with them. I want to play win at Wii. I want to look at old photos and see how much they've grown. I want my annual handmade crayon cards with hearts and flowers and smiley faces all over them.

I also want to be a little spoiled. I'd love to get a massage or a pedicure. Some sushi and a nice glass of Pinot Grigio would be wonderful, too. Sitting outside, alone, listening to the birds chirp and just relaxing, is a beautiful way to spend the day.

Here's what I did. I dipped my little toe into column B by having my husband take care of the crappy things like cleaning toilets, making lunches, sweeping crumbs, wiping noses, and telling two hyper, screaming boys to calm the hell down! All this while I slept in late, read a good book, sipped some Sam Adams Summer Ale, and took a long shower during which I actually shaved my legs and used that incredible strawberry sorbet scrub that's been staring at me from my bathroom counter since December.

And then I embraced a bit of column A. I hugged and kissed my kids. I told them stories they'd heard before about when they were little. I teared up quite a bit. I felt my heart grow like the Grinch's when I opened the cards they drew for me. I played games with them and read to them and spent some time outside enjoying the day with my them. I wrote them letters telling them how stinking awesome they are.  

That was a good mix for me. A very happy Mother's Day.

Where are you? Firmly in column A? Column B? Somewhere in the AB area? What did you do for Mother's Day?