I am an honest blogger, but not a confessional blogger; Mom-101 has never been my diary. But there have been so many occasions that I’ve wanted to talk about some more personal things. To respond to other posts about tough subjects not with an “I’m sorry” but with a “me too.”
It’s a very scary prospect.
The more successful or prominent a blogger becomes, I’d imagine the more some of us hold back. For our kids, for our careers, for our families. The reality is, I’m less likely to blog about baby Thalia finding condom wrappers the morning after Valentine’s Day in the couch, now that I have an actual mental picture of who you are, my readers. You are my friends, my family, my clients, my coworkers, my parents, my parents’ friends. You are my upstairs neighbors, my fellow school moms, my boss, a few potential bosses, no doubt my company’s HR director from time to time. And my Aunt Fredda. The one whose name, when I was little, lead me believe that there was a famous female dancer named Fredda Stair.
Oof. The old school newspaper columnists had it easy, in the days before Google analytics.
Yesterday, this profound post at Finslippy about women as objects brought up such strong feelings, such repressed shameful memories, that I started to say it…almost. Not quite. Her post was as brave as my comment there was not.
But it should be said.