Entering my 10th year of blogging (seriously, it was hard enough for me to admit/accept my kids entering their double-digits) I often times compare maintaining a blog to that of nurturing a child: just imagine if parenting came with spell-check and a delete button, eh?
Some years are more difficult than others, then there are those times when the suckage runs real deep and all you would need to do is check back in a blogger's archives to realize that one of three things happen:
Blogging increases.
Posting decreases.
Blog shuts down, completely.
Most especially, around this time of year, when folks begin to re-evaluate the time and effort it takes to nurture a blog, as well.
Aaaaaand, then there's the added consideration of maintaining an online presence (MOP, for short), while under the influence of suckage.
As 2012 comes to a close, 63 days post-Sandy and 10 days after the Mayans quit counting (can you blame them?) I find myself in the totally opposite situation: clinging to my archives, like a teething child looking for something to bite into (HARD!) and stomping my feet while declaring (in a totally whine-y voice):
"But, I don't waaaaaaaant to stop blogging AND you can't make me…DAMMIT!"
Learning to walk his hard, learning to fall is even harder.
Please feel free to visit with me over at my Gone Shopping blog and read more about: why I can't help but feel that life would be a little easier if Learning From Our Mistakes-101 were a requirement, rather than an elective…for parents, too…when you have time, of course.
Toasting a safe arrival into San Diego with my dear friend, Headless Mom!
I had the extreme privilege of attending BlogHer 2011 (thank you, Kmart!) and honestly, even after pulling all-nighters in a New York City hospital, saving BlogHers with Busy Mom, I don’t remember being THIS tired, last year.
Then again, biking around in Coronado with Melisa, Sue and Michelle can be very, very EXHAUSTING oh and absolutely HILARIOUS (trust me, I was there!) but, I’ll let Melisa blog about it, once she stops laughing, I mean!
Attending sessions, learning from other bloggers and celebrating each other’s accomplishments, like, that of the awesomeness of my dear friends, Jenn and Busy Mom (pictured above) speaking on the Old School Blogger Panel, is what we blogger-types do best.
Also, meeting bloggers I admire (like Elizabeth Peterson and the amazing Liz Strauss) for the first time at really cool events, like here, attending the Pan Am dinner with Busy Mom.
Getting all decked out for the absolutely awesome harbor cruise, courtesy of Dove Ice Cream (thanks for sending me this before pic, Melisa!) and checking off yet another once in a lifetime moment, thanks to writing in my silly little blog.
Aaaaaand, oh how we danced and laughed whenever one of us got photo-bombed by BusyMom (I did and it was AWESOME!) these are the BlogHer moments I love best.
Getting caught talking with my hands (again!) and spilling my drink all over Backpacking Dad, not so much.
[covers face with hands, hangs head in shame]
Thank goodness no one else at CheeseburgHER seems to have noticed, or even cared, that he smelled of appletini (heh!)
At least, I don’t think they did, seeing as I was too busy throwing my back out on the dance floor…YO!
I saw this awesome writing exercise over at Ramblin’ Red’s blog and, taking into consideration that I do tend to get lost and sometimes feel as if I don’t know if I’m coming or going (okay, a lot) also, I am currently, suffering from a slight case of summertime mommy brain (what, you too?!?) and seeing it’s ONLY July 5th (I think) I’ve decided to give it a whirl.
There’s a template of prompts to follow and, ideally, help to create something of myself, while reading like no other poem, in existence (we’ll see) here we go:
I am from my Grandmother’s freshly-ironed apron, from lemon Pledge and my father’s record collection of Broadway musicals.
I am from a working class home, in a less than desirable neighborhood, where children were left to play in streets filled with the smell of smoked meat and pot holes, covered with cinder blocks and plywood, “borrowed” from construction sites, that were laid on top and fashioned into bike ramps, left to roast in the summertime heat.
I am from the fresh green smell of parsley root and the spiciness of Hungarian peppers, carefully planted in abundantly lush rows of raised beds, caressed by callused hands, then laid to rest in a make-shift green house of plastic wrap and leftover piping.
I am from chicken soup on Sundays and sharing stories with men and women (mostly true) made old before their time, while their children swung under willow trees, or chased each other among the hot dog carts, remembering grandparents they have never met, with strange sounding, yet familiar names, like Katkics and Kiss.
I am from that family, who never seemed to learn how to fully close windows and doors (especially, in the summertime) and would rather go to bed angry, or wake in silence, than have to face fighting, yet another day.
From this house, children must not be heard, but you must listen and do as I say, right or wrong, it’s for your own good.
I am from kneeling while praying in church, as a punishment at home, or asking for forgiveness, having forgotten to cover my head, in an act of absolute humility, again.
I’m from New Jersey, the first generation to be born on American soil, by way of Hungarian immigrants, growing up in war torn streets and made world weary as teenagers, who then met each other, through surrogate family members, building on a strong foundation, for the love of family, whose roots are buried deep in Hungarian Goulash and Paprika, preferably Kalocsai.
From the grandmother who chose to immigrate to America, as the lesser of 2 evils, in an attempt to escape an abusive husband, by herself, with my mother and my Aunt Theresa (who was only 4 years-old at the time) sadly, from the man who eventually found them, and, though he has been dead to us, for over 20 years and, although I cried, having recently found his obituary, I am thankful that he is no longer on this earth.
I am from a secret place, deep inside the belly of a long-neglected room, hiding behind trunks of old clothes and 8 mm home movies, wearing my grandmother’s stole, made of real mink (with their heads still attached) and trying on an old pair of peep-toed heels, listening to the furnace, as it comes to life behind me and consumes another shovelful of coal, granting me audience, as I pretend that my life is a movie, I become my own story.
Curiously enough, the photo (waaaaaaay up there) is from a showcase featured as Freedom and Liberty and, well, I thought it just sort of fits, you know?
Over the years, I’ve learned to expect less than favorable opinions, from other people, upon learning that I have 4 kids.
Then, when other people find out I have 3 daughters, who ALL share the same bedroom, the shock sets in and, well, yes, it is just as complicated and delicate of a situation as anyone can imagine.
All I can say is, thank goodness we have a REALLY BIG backyard and, when hormone levels begin to rise and, add in the closeness of summertime, threaten to reach epic proportions (like, yesterday) I can toss them ALL in the swimming pool and, hopefully, avert a nuclear meltdown.
Mine, too!
Being a girl is really, really hard. I know. My daughters sometimes forget, I used to be one. Once. A long time ago.
However, I wasn’t allowed to play organized sports, even though I was really good at soccer and could pretty much run circles around the boys, when playing “for fun” at the Hungarian Club.
With my sincerest apologies, in advance, to Mia Hamm’s mother, it was a boy’s sport and both my parents worked during the day AND cleaned office buildings, together, in the evenings, during most sporting practices, anyway.
It wasn’t in their nature to, you know, ask for help.
Besides, they had me to help cook, clean and were grooming their daughter to be perhaps the best that they could have expected, at the time, given their upbringing.
Frankly, there are worse things (trust me, I’ve heard their stories) and my parents have since admitted, as their daughter, I’ve far surpassed any and all of their expectations (mine, too!)
They ARE terrific grandparents and have been there, for my kids, sharing in nearly every milestone and a few unexpected surprises, as well.
Funny backstory: after a long day of furniture shopping and helping my parents plan their move, we stopped for lunch and my father actually cheered, out loud, when my oldest got her period at McDonalds.
While, 30 years earlier, I got in trouble, BIG TIME, for leaving a pack of Kotex on the bathroom sink.
Still, I try and make it a point to thank them, whenever I can, for helping to make me the person, who I am…right now.
I am…the mother of 3 very spirited daughters, who are confident and, although they don’t like each other, very much, sometimes (okay, a lot) there’s unconditional love, in there, somewhere, albeit wet and perhaps even a little sticky.
Oh, and I also have a son, who likes to cook, bake and knows how to separate his laundry (okay, so my mother taught him) and…YES…I expect him to make someone a REAL good wife, most likely, some day.
Not unlike many cultures, growing up, my twin brother and I spent a lot of time with our grandmother — especially, in the summertime.
Some of my fondest memories are of helping Nagy Mama cook Sunday dinner, or tend to her vegetable gardens, while listening to awesome stories “from the old country.”
To be REAL honest, there were a few downright scary moments when I think she, along with others of the grandparent-ly-type, made up half of these so-called folktales, just to scare us kids into, you know, being good.
So…YES!…I have taken poetic license in re-telling some of these stories…to MY children.
Like, when exploring Uncle John’s and Aunt Cheryl’s farm, looking for freshwater crawfish (WHAT!?!?) apparently, Jersey’s got ’em, who knew?
Aaaand, finding this little dude, instead, then telling my kids that…YES!…it is most definitely a wishing frog .
Which, upon closer inspection, he (or, she???) was obviously ready, willing and seemed to be quite comfortable, actually, in granting us audience, big or small.
Ahhhhhh…but, there IS a catch…you have to catch him, first.
Then…and ONLY then…can you make your wish.
Unless, you find a tall, dark and really, really brave mom-type blogger (preferably, descended from a long line of warrior princesses) to, you know, do it, for you.
Because, contrary to what the Grimm Brothers may have told you, it’s really bad juju to kiss a frog (see disclosure, below.)
Go ahead, make a wish (you know you want to) but, don’t say I didn’t warn you…OH!…and you’re welcome!!!
Disclosure: Just so you know, this blog post is for entertainment purposes, ONLY. I am in no way advocating the kissing of frogs. In fact, it’s probably a REAL bad idea, as some frogs can give humans tapeworm cysts and salmonella poisoning. (See also: EWWWW and GAG ME WITH A SHOVEL!!!!) It’s okay, though, because I didn’t really kiss him/her, made sure to wash my hands (before and after) and, truth be told, the frog didn’t look too happy about the idea, either. SHEESH!!!
I remember, back in the day (way before feed readers and Facebook ruled the interwebz) when my kids were smaller (i.e. NOT able to finish stuff ordered off the children’s menu) how cute it was when they’d start planning their NEXT birthdays…the day AFTER…their birthdays.
Then, they got bigger, we started paying full price at the movie theaters and, well, thank goodness for Netflix.
Then, all of the sudden, we were celebrating birthweeks, evidenced by my having to clean the house, more than usual and, well, thank goodness our local super, duper, shop until you drop has an awesome bakery department, too.
Did I mention, my 3 oldest celebrate their birthdays in November, December and January, respectively, in birth order and…SURE…I could tell you, that…YES…we totally planned it that way…OF COURSE…I am still THAT organized (snort!) but, most of you would probably know I’d be lying, right?
As my kids continue to get older (me, too DAGNABIT!) I’ve since grown to appreciate celebrating birthweekends and focusing on enjoying the simple stuff, like:
Waking up with all my body parts STILL attached.
Sipping a cup of my husband’s most excellent coffee.
Enjoying the early morning hours, on our porch.
Not having to go anywhere.
Not having to do anything.
Touching, feeling and actually getting to read the newspaper.
Visiting with family and friends.
Impressing the kids that…SHYEAH!!!…mom can STILL play a mean game of volleyball.
Not to mention, NOT having to clean up, after (the house party, not volleyball, SHEESH!)
These are the things that made MY birthday weekend totally AWESOME, anyway!
Also, best cake, EVUH (thanks, Pam!) you know, I could really get used to this whole birthday thing.
I mean, after 39 years of practice, you’d think I would be, right?
Our oldest is a junior (I know, still not sure how THAT happened) so, my husband, Garth (not his real name) and I attended a financial aid workshop at the high school, last night.
Because, you know, she’s a junior, in high school and, well, this whole, “Holy Hannah Montana, I got a junior in high school,” thing really didn’t seem like such a big deal…when she was in kindergarten.
Long story, short (as of now, anyway) and 6 hand-written pages worth of notes, later (old school, I know) our best takeaway from the night?
We can now continue to talk about our kids, continuing their education, without throwing up.
Good thing, too, seeing as we’ll be very, very busy, filling out paperwork, for the next 16 years.
Yes, I know, we have 4 kids and, yeah, this is EXACTLY the sort of stuff expert-types tell us we should have…you know…talked about…sooner.
Aaaand, it’s totally what I expected the very expert-looking dude to tell us, last night, too.
Although, we kind of sort of, you know, already knew.
Still, the workshop was free and I was thankful to get any advice, coming from people, who get paid good money, to tell other people, you know, they don’t have any money.
So, I sat there, kept my mouth shut (which, anyone who knows me, knows, quiet makes me itch) watched the expert-like dude fire up his power point, “Helping Students Pursue Their Educational & Career Goals,” and cringed in anticipation
“It’s never too late to start planning for college.”
[heavy sigh]
I should have known, better. He wasn’t wearing a tie!
Morale of the Story: “Remember, an expert is a person who tells you a simple thing in a confused way to make you think the confusion is your own fault” ~ William Castle (producer of Rosemary’s Baby, so, yeah, he should know!)
Thanks, I.O.U. one, expert-like dude, along with everyone else, for the next 16 years.
