Writer Unplugged: Why I Didn't Delete My Blog

I’ve been beating myself up wondering whether I should delete my blog. Frankly, I’ve been contemplating deleting my Facebook (which has this side of 10 likes and I rarely use) and my Twitter account (which is relatively new and I don’t have the hang of yet). I know having an online presence, platform, brand, whatever has become essential but at what cost?

Last weekend, I realized I hadn’t written anything but a tweet since I’d opened my Twitter account. Not a word. Except my blog. But, see, I’m not a “blogger”. I have a blog but I’m not a blogger. I do not help people with my expertise, entertain people with my comedic essays, or interact with people about controversial subjects. The bloggers I’ve seen online edit and hone their often lengthy posts on their gorgeous background of a blog. They network and are part of a blogging community. They are artists. I just write.

I thought, “What's the point? Get rid of it.”

After reading this post by Cat Lumb about having a first draft become the thing you like best of all and keep instead of the subsequent edits, I realized why I love my blog so much and couldn’t delete it. I commented on her post that “first drafts have an amazing combination of raw emotion and the writer’s real voice. Which [is what] I want to read. And hear.” There it is. My blog is always a first draft. Maybe because I write it for fun, maybe because I know no one is reading it…I type and post. Done. It’s freeing, in a way, to be able to dance like no one is watching. I type like no one is reading. (Which is true, but whatever.)

I love writing my blog. No one reads my posts, as I am sure no one will read this one, but at least I am writing. You're supposed to have a target audience (I'm well aware of this as a teacher) but I don't. My blog is more of an online journal than a pro blog. Thing is, I want to write. I need to write. So I write—about my life, my kids, anything. It feels good and it keeps me on a schedule to make sure I keep writing.

And, because I just type whatever is on my mind then post it, it is me. This is me. Writer unplugged.

A Day of Green…That’s All

I never really celebrated St. Patrick's Day.

I remember wearing green to school when I was little. My mom would sometimes put my hair up in two, long blonde pigtails and tie green ribbons around them. Other than that, I don't think I did anything out of the ordinary on that day. Although...I seem to vaguely remember a green Care Bear with a shamrock on his tummy that I paid special attention to that day. Maybe I brought him to school? I also could be making that up or confusing it with another popular 80s toy that was green and had a shamrock somewhere on it.

I also thought Leprechauns were neat. Little magical people with rainbows and gold? What's not to like? I colored my share of them with green jackets and tiny black top hats.

Oh, yes, and the school cafeteria handed out our milk cartons (which looked normal) with no indication that, when you finally got the damn thing ripped open, the sloshing liquid inside was a putrid pea color. It tasted like milk but, honestly, gross.

That must have been the precursor to the green beer I was always served on St. Patrick's Day if I was stupid enough to join the mob of if-I-drink-enough-maybe-my-puke-will-be-green guests visiting the bars every March 17.

Green beer...yummy.

This is a decidedly Christian holiday celebrating, um, what’s his name. That saint. But, like many holidays, it has long since been celebrated as a secular feast and drink-fest. So, regardless of your religion, on March 17, everyone is Irish, wears green, and loves beer.

Kids cut out shamrocks and wear green. Adults drink beer and wear green. And, well, that’s kind of it.    

Melodious Morning

Conversations with my 7-year-old.

At breakfast this morning, my little one says, “I love that the birds are singing to us every morning again.”

I listen for a minute. Huh. There they are. “It is nice,” I agree. Why does my child have to notice the little things in life like that for me? I’m not doing anything—I should be in the moment. I’m not. Kids are so great for bringing you back to reality. Sometimes even in a good way.  

I just sip my coffee and listen to them chirp. “Wait until spring is here in a few weeks…”

“One week. Plus three days.”

“Yes,” I say. “One week. Then…”

“Plus three days,” he corrects.

“Yes,” I say again, “that’s the equinox. Spring. Right. Anyway, the birds will be chirping and singing and sounding so, um…”

“Melodious. They’ll sound melodious.”

Yes, my beautiful little boy, that’s exactly the word I was going to use before I finished my coffee this morning. Definitely not “good” or anything.  

Beep! Beep! Bedtime.

Conversations with my 7-year-old.

My little one is getting ready for bed. We take his pajamas, throw them in the hamper, and get new ones out. They have race cars all over them. Of course they do because, if you’re shopping for a little boy it’s always cars, trucks, sports, or dinosaurs—none of which my 7-year-old likes.

“Ugh! Those are ugly! I can’t stand race cars!”

Just an FYI...these are NOT my son's jammies.
I wouldn't do that to him.

“Um…they’re pajamas. No one will see them.”

“I’LL see them! They’re awful!”

“Are they comfortable?”

He looks down and doesn’t answer. I think he might actually cry. Ah…to be seven again.

I’ve never liked the car, truck, dino thing either, really. And I’ve never made this poor kid leave the house in a shirt with a race car or t-rex on it. But these are pajamas. 

I honestly don’t know what to say so I try to make light of the situation and poke him in the tummy saying, “Beep”.

He looks up at me and says, “Oh, nice. Thank you so much for rubbing salt in the wound.”

I am ashamed.

Gimme a Break

So the kids are home for February break. "Winter Break."

Déjà vu. (Literarally: having the strong sensation that an event or experience currently being experienced has been experienced in the past.) Thanks, wikipedia, you always come through for me in a big way.

Anyway, not that I don't just adore having the kids running around "playing" (stomping and shouting and bumping into things and crying) but didn't they just have a break? Like a few weeks ago? For the winter holidays? Another "Winter Break"? I believe they're getting a "Spring Break" soon, too. Give me a break.

Everyone is complaining about the snow. OH! The dreaded snow! Too much snow! Too many snow days! My kids will be going to school until July!

Here's a thought...get rid of the superfluous February break and they can have as many snow days as they need without extending the school year too far. I'm sure this has already been suggested somewhere by someone but I haven't heard it. And if it was, why didn't the schools do away with this ridiculous vacation?

Whatever. The kids are home. Again. Yay.

SAFETY Dance

As I mentioned in this previous blog post, my 7-year-old son loves dancing. I thought it would be much more accepted now than it actually is. People like to pretend that it is. Dance academies like to advertise that it is. But, it’s not. Not by parents, peers, or dance schools—at least not the ones I’ve dealt with.

I don’t want him to lose this love. I don’t want him to question whether he should be doing this. For one thing, he is damn good at it. For another, he enjoys it. I want both my kids to feel comfortable and self-confident. I want them to feel "safe" doing whatever it is that makes them happy.

Just for fun, I like to show him cool actors and famous people (boys) who can dance. This is one of his favorites. And mine, too. Silly? Yes. Scrubs is a comedy. But that guy has had some serious training.

Incidentally, this video has helped my 9-year-old soccer, basketball, baseball, football fan to think dancing is cool.

A letter to a friend (or Choosing your path)

There comes a time in everyone’s life when they must take their past and put it there—

in the past. 

Easier said than done, sometimes. Your past experiences shape you. But the fact remains that those who have been mistreated must decide, at a certain point, who it is they want to be. And if that person who they want to be is important enough to them, they will fight to become that someone. Someone they can be proud of. 

I was writing a letter to a friend of mine, as a simple, kind gesture, and it turned into this. A message to all the survivors out there who have lived a difficult life, made mistakes, acted on bad decisions, and let the weight of their past pull them under until they either hit bottom and bruised themselves or someone reached in and pulled them out.

Those of you who stand tall and strong although you still struggle, you are heroes. If you have chosen the more difficult path of self-love, generosity, kindness, and empathy, you are a champion. 

The great thing about this is that you can decide at sixteen or sixty and you have still won. If you falter, you stand up straight again. There is a chance no one noticed. There is a chance no one cares. Because you continue to respect yourself and those around you. Because these people know it is so much easier to walk the other path but that you have chosen this arduous one.   

So, to my friend who this letter was for, and to all my other friends and family who have chosen to become someone they are proud to be, I would like to take this opportunity, as small as it may be, to use a tiny virtual corner of the world to honor you. 

You are extraordinary.