I started this blog in 2007. Back then, it was little more than a blip in the blogosphere that represented– at least to me– a promise to myself that no matter how terrible things got (re: working in commercial real estate), I would keep writing. Through a combination of luck, perseverance, and some talent I’ve been able to spend most of my professional life in the creative services: writing and creating in some capacity.
When I no longer needed this blog for that purpose, it became something else entirely. Over the years it has shifted and changed to accommodate my life and what I need from the blog. (I hardly ever go back and read old posts; they truly make me cringe.) About two years ago the blog finally became something I was deeply proud of. No longer a ranting humor blog, it had finally turned a corner to become the thoughtful, unapologetic exploration of my life, emotions, feelings, and expectations. It’s been said of me that I lack a filter, but the truth is actually quite the opposite. My seeming lack of filter is my filter. I seek to engage myself– and those around me– in a constant conversation about what is true and what has value. I do not create content for shock value. I put myself out there in hopes that someone, somewhere will connect with what I am saying and think a little bit harder about how they feel. For some people it’s refreshing, for others, unfortunately, it’s offensive.
So what’s this about? Ugh. Right.
These are my truths; my thoughts and feelings about what it’s like to navigate life. Choices are a bitch: they elevate and advance us, but they also preclude us from so many things. My point in my post last week about the worthiness of parenting was not to vilify my tiny human, but to help others understand what a deeply challenging role parenting is, as well as what it means to choose the role of a parent over that of so many other available roles. I love my tiny human. I love him very, very dearly, but I cannot– and will not– say that his appearance into my life hasn’t thrown me into a tailspin of contemplation and questioning.
Author is loved. If I didn’t love him, I wouldn’t hook myself up to a goddamn milking machine every day for eight months, or roast tiny game hens and puree them up like poor people pate. I wouldn’t spend every last dollar I make on his nanny or cry myself to sleep over whether I can give him the future he deserves. He is loved not only by me, but by his “pups” and his Gami and his Mimi and Panda and Grand Bear, and all the other friends and relative with whom he Facetimes every week.
But like I said before, he can be a teeny tiny fucker. And if that’s too much to hear, you’ve come to the wrong place.