OPENING UP THE PROVERBIAL CAN O' WORMS (or alternatively, the longest blog post EVER)

I wrote an entry and put it up on my blog last Friday, not thinking too much about it.  I mean, this is a blog, after all, supposedly to write about what is going on in my life, and this was definitely going on.  I was swimming in it. 

But then a dear friend emailed me, worried, like "I read your blog.  Are you okay?"  Okay, she didn't actually italicize 'okay', but I could hear it in the way her words looked.  So I went back and read over my post, and yeah, it did sound a little over the top.  A bit Joyce meets Camus.  But here's the thing: I HAVE MY MASTER'S IN THEATER.  SOMETIMES I HAVE A TENDENCY TO BE DRAMATIC.  TO MAKE TOO BIG A DEAL OUT OF STUFF.  TO FREAK OUT EVEN MY THERAPIST WITH A UNIQUE ABILITY TO RADIATE NEGATIVITY.

The fortunate flip side to this special quirk in my personality is that once I get it out (the verbal vomit, if you will) I'm generally better for it.  I realize the older I am (FORTY, there I said it, it rolled off my tongue like buttah-40!) how often I refuse to let things out because I'm worried what people will think of me.  But the more I take ownership for who I am, what I actually think/feel, the better things usually are.

However, this particular blog post was complicated, because I mentioned my sweet baby, which I haven't done here so far, except in glowing terms.  The blog so far has focused on the DISD education crisis--both coverage of events and my personal slant in the crossfire.  My family has been on the sidelines as part of the impetus for my taking part in a stand against politicians and supposed school advocates who don't have a problem axing $10 billion from the education budget.  (As a side issue, I hope my newfound activism will one day lead me to the critical position of close enough to ruffle Rick Perry's hair.)

On the other hand, the subtitle of my blog is, "travails from motherhood, writersville, and accidental activism".  I didn't just want to write about education.  I am also a mother, a writer, a human being (in no particular order): I wanted this blog to capture all of those roles, beginning with the real-life impact these education budget cuts might have. So that particular Friday post happened to be of the motherhood variety.  But after reading my friend's concerned email, I worried other pals and random strangers might be questioning my sanity.  Seeking objectivity, I showed my husband, my rock, anticipating that bit of emotional support spouses rely on. He REALLY didn't like it.  
       "That's about our family.  You're going to write about our daughter's possible health issue?  Why do you need to tell everyone that?"
       To which I said, "How is this different than narrative non-fiction, a personal essay, or a memoir?  David Sedaris? Running with Scissors?"  To which he had no good answer. 

But I knew what he meant.  What separates a blog from a journal entry?  While journal entries can be cathartic to write, why did mine need to go public? My husband is smart, fiercely private, protective of his family.  Which I adore about him.  He had this rarely worn wrinkle-browed expression, the guy who trusts me to do what I want pretty much always. "Words are powerful," he said, like he needed to remind me.

So I read the post once more and this time, I felt naked, literally.  Like anyone who hopped online could see me with less than a string bikini.  Absolutely no sunblock.  My soul exposed.  My heart open.  Just lying there for anyone to misread, misjudge, make fun of.  In other words, it was exactly like middle school.  Worse (what could be worse than MIDDLE SCHOOL?), I was the one who put it there.  What if I had jinxed my baby by letting worst case scenario fears float into the atmosphere?   You've read The Secret, people. It was an Oprah Book Club selection!  Magical thinking abounded. 

So I emailed a lovely writer friend and asked her opinion--too much, too personal?  She wrote back, "Blogging is tricky."  Her point was, who is your audience?  What is your purpose?  Then I felt a little sweaty, unsure of answers to these most basic questions. I hadn't really thought that through.  Bravely, I fled back to Blogger and deleted the entry. Just took a second to erase it completely.  Heartened, I wiped it clean from Face Book, from GoogleBuzz.  Not a trace of my neurotic bender. 

But I've spent the last few days going back and forth.  Just getting rid of it seems like cheating.  As Meg Ryan says in When Harry Met Sally, it's already out there.  Pretending I didn't post it seems a little ridiculous.  So am I a mommy blogger or a political blogger and who do I mean to talk to? Is my blogging purpose to tell a story, elicit a response, bring about change?  All of these and/or more?  If it is about education, writing, and motherhood all at once, does that dilute the power?  While writing about myself is one thing, is it fair write about those I hold most dear, to tell  how life with them appears through my lens, but without their permission?

People have asked this question about writing before: Aren't you worried [insert family member] is going to read it?  I usually say some version of: You can't think about it.  If you do, you won't write it.  Or worse, you will write it, with the end and audience in mind, and what you create will change entirely. Would Philip Roth or Joyce Carol Oates be so prolific if they cared what their parents thought??

I don't know the answers to these questions.  In part, this blog is meant to stumble into, over, and through to get to the best approximations.  Because life is messy.  One thing is certain, though: were I to do only things I felt sure about, I would do far less far more of the time.  So.

I am a writer.  It took me a long time to figure that out, and yes, it would be nice if the pay weren't so erratic, but it is what it is, and I am what I am, to reference Popeye.  I write in large part to connect with people, to convene amidst questions, insights, problems, and hilarities surrounding what it means to be human.  Posing the questions aloud, on paper, to someone, is my attempt to work it out.

While the inquiry began with education, turns out it doesn't end there; it was getting the conversation started. 

Which is why I ask for you to follow the blog and comment, dear readers!! I want to know who I am speaking to.  You as reader are part of the conversation.

Because ultimately that is the only way to keep the dialogue moving forward.  I think that is where change begins.

So does that mean I can write about my husband, son, stepson, and daughter carte blanche? I honestly don't know. For now, it will have to be its own work in progress.  This is no exact science. But today I think it's okay to use this blog consciously, responsibly, as a means to consider the question(s).  (And in case of emergency, there's always delete, right?)

Finally, in a fancy new blogging twist, I ask my sweet husband, LIVE, as he reads this (because I am MAKING HIM READ THIS BEFORE I POST IT, get it?):  Hi, honey!  Is it alright with you for me to re-post my post that was then wasn't?  Because that feels a little scary, a bit naked, to re-post, but it also feels authentic.

My dear spouse, won't you please play along with the following quick multiple choice quiz?

A.) if you want to include the old blog post, it's there, a couple lines down--just push the orange button below on the left that says PUBLISH POST and that will be that. 
Or B.) you may delete if you wish and I will not hold a grudge.  Either way is okay, because whether the original post appears or not, I've said what I need to say. 

Is this blogging thing exciting or what?!:)---

Okay, me again.  Predictably, my husband chose none of the above, but asked me to create choice:

C.) Brad Burdette: "It's okay to re-post with the express statement that I do not agree that there is anything wrong with my smiling laughing talkative engaged baby, other than the fact that she is a few months behind on some physical milestones that won't mean anything in months and years to come.  And that in my opinion there is no reason, but may be a disservice, to suggest otherwise."

And so now I have to add choice C. addendum:  I agree with everything he says; my daughter is indeed a beautiful hilarious little ham and I adore her.  But I'm also a worrier.  It comes with the territory.
________________________________________________
THE AFOREMENTIONED DELETED POST RE-POSTED.
Breakdown 101: pitfalls to trying to be the change you want to see in the world
(originally posted Friday, April 8)

Do you ever get the feeling you should stay huddled asleep under that ridiculously comfy comforter and refuse to get up?  That it might even be better that way for all involved?  Because no matter your noble intentions, the universe appears to be guffawing while poking you in the eye?  I've been wondering about apathy surrounding me, but you know, it makes sense actually: if you don't put yourself out there, you do not have to feel the way I do today. And that's not nothing. Because something you did with the best of intentions turned on its face, and today, you are not the hero, but the idiot, the goober, the fool, the loser, the insert whatever derogatory noun-ish insult you prefer.  And you--okay enough of this extraneous namby-pamby second person usage--because I, I, feel so ANGRY.  Because I am trying to do the right thing, even if it did accidentally make me look like a pinhead. 

I peer now through this crap-colored lens at this blog, my latest effort, at least in part, to address the train wreck that is public education.  I swallow my modest stats, my heartfelt words, my naive idiocy, and I wonder, really, why bother?  I love you, I salute you, my five noble followers, but do you know how many bloggers are out there, how many are computer literate?  They have created their own blog rolls, enticed readers to their site with fancy buttons and stuff, in um, direct opposition to my skill set.  In the long hours I've clocked over the last few months delving into public education solutions, today I think, have my efforts really done squat to remotely change the landscape? 

Meanwhile, hey, I've missed a bunch of Oprahs, People magazines, TMZ updates. You know, I could have been anesthetizing, eating processed foodstuff and buying Suzanne Somers workout videos on late night TV. Or I could have even fashioned my own herb garden to make fabulous homemade pizza if I wanted to stay positive about it (and my son asked me to).  My point is, it's not like there aren't other things going on.  In fact, my sweet daughter, freshly one, who babbles like Pebbles, happens to not be meeting her milestones.  No, she is not crawling, she is not pointing, not saying 'dada', not pulling up, thanks for asking.  She's not baby Einstein, which admit it or no, we parents all secretly hope for: on the playground comparing our progeny to other, similarly-aged children, we add data covertly to our internal spreadsheet, 'what can mine do that hers can't?'. We are relieved when our kid can grab the monkey bars and make it halfway across, when they catch our eye and wave.  Only my sweet pixie does not wave yet.  When I say her name, sometimes she looks at me and sometimes she doesn't. 

It could be nothing.  Just different timetables.  We're all individuals, you know--'free to be you and me'--could be she needs a bit more time and encouragement.  Everything will be, is, fine.  She'll catch up.

Or it could be something.  Google tells me so.  It's enough of a concern that my pediatrician recommended I contact Early Childhood Intervention and a Developmental Pediatrician yesterday at Isabel's one-year checkup. So I scour the Internet, cursing my stupid stubborn fingers.  All these things we take for granted--that our children will walk, speak, grow--you know, because that couldn't happen to me, right?  But then me has to be somebody; who's to say me isn't me??   I spent an absurd amount of tear-stained time last night on the computer, husband's sidelong glances speaking volumes when he entered or exited the bedroom without uttering a word.  Cerebral Palsy, Muscular Dystrophy, gross motor delay, myeleniation?  I'm certain I spelled that word wrong. BabyCenter.com even notes the weird idiosincracy I thought was just an endearing Isabel-ism--legs crossed at the ankles, held stiff and straight in the air, small hands clasped tightly at her chest--but turns out lots of mothers worry about it.  There's a whole page on it.  Is it a sign of something?  Last night, dreams teemed with wheelchairs and milestone charts and Special Olympics and mommy and me classes and rays of hope and shame outshined by terror.

Then I woke up.  I got the kids ready for school, I made breakfast, I didn't eat.  And then I found out that even though I had tried to do something positive and proactive for education, I accidentally messed up, well, part of it, anyway.  (I know, I know, in the off chance you are actually reading this, you want to know what it was already that I did wrong.  But I don't want to further vex the party disappointed with me by getting all McCarthy over it, and the particulars aren't what matter.)

Now I must get my son from school.  After an anxious morning filled with too many books and sing-song tactile motherly engagement, naming every object we see--"Red cup!  Do you see the yellow duck?"--my Pebbles wanna-be is now passed out from exhaustion.  I have not done the dishes we have a mountain of laundry I have not showered.  And here's the thing.  I'm typing this most likely meaningless stupid woe is me blog entry. Even though I'm renouncing my hyper fingers, beseeching them in vain, 'what are you typing for?' Still they keep moving, trying to make something out of nothing. Because I've got to do something. To keep going, I guess.