This post has been inspired by this one and its comments.
Recently I’ve been very worried that I’m too old to be a mommy blogger.
I know that I look as young and stunning as the day you first read that blog, but the ugly truth is that I’ve been aging. Behind your back.
Well, now that I think about it, it’s not that I am too old, but it’s my kids who are too old. But I’ll be damned if I’m too exhausted to edit the first three sentences of this post. Old age and all.
My children are 13 and 10, so we are past a lot of the stuff that mommy blogging is made of.
Or should be.
Because yes, the days of sleepless nights and potty training and breast vs. bottle and SAHM vs. WOHM and will I ever get my body back are far behind me.
That’s not what my life is made of and I worry that this makes me a mommy blogger has been.
And to make matters worse, my kids are acting up.
Not the adorable for blogging purposes acting up, where they hurl themselves on the floor and re-enact the The Excorcist, but the DON’T BLOG ABOUT US type of acting up. The stuff that kills blogs.
And I get it.
But I have mixed feelings about it.
Because although I understand my children not wanting to be fodder for humorous stories, I’m still searching for that line that nestles between their need for privacy and my conviction that the stories of my raising them belong to me as well. Under a some sort of a Creative Commons-type license perhaps.
When my thirteen year old daughter who recently got the nearly invisible braces asks her uncle, “can you tell that I am under orthodontic treatment?” I can’t not mention it on a post. I just cannot. Also when Young Ladrinka clings to his new Kindle Fire (OMG, I WANT ONE SO MUCH) and then as he opens up the first book that he downloaded, doesn’t pause at the Prologue, explaining that he never reads those, they are extra and don’t matter.
I need to write that down. In the my kids kill me they are so clever and mine, all mine, at least for a few more years way.