Tuesday, February 26, 2013
We each have very few people who truly know us. Whether we intend to or not, we have one or more personas that we present to the world--the professional, the crafty mom, the school volunteer, the artist, the athlete, the dork. It's like our own Sybil-esque Breakfast Club that we break out as needed depending upon our audience. The people who know the entire cast--who have seen us at our weakest and nastiest as well as our wittiest--are few and dear.
Nowhere is this more true than on the Internet. If you post to social media or blog, you inevitably choose what to say and what aspects of your personality to share. For a long time, most of my personal Facebook posts were of the Overtired Snarky Bitter Mom variety. Now that I drink less, sleep more, and am less cranky, I think I come off as more balanced. In fact, I am a little more sane than I once was, but motherhood was never as purely negative as I made it seem. I found sharing my frustration therapeutic in the moment and aimed to be humorous.
I haven't planned in advance who I want to be on this blog. I'm hoping that, over time, you get to know me fairly well. Despite that, I still have a mental filter. You're not reading everything I'm thinking. I might need to get a job someday, and posting without a filter would be hazardous. There are days that I'm a sentimental mom or a proud mom. There are days that I roll my eyes and have to laugh at the things my kids do. Some days, it's not about being a mom at all. I necessarily pick and choose which thoughts and experiences to share, which then influences how you think of me.
Take this morning, for example. If I were comfortable enough to brag openly about my kids--which I try to keep to a minimum, because who finds that entertaining?--I would tell you that they are both working on self-initiated, self-directed research reports. My third grader, who always digs deep on an issue of interest, is interested in the Tasmanian tiger, a carnivorous marsupial that is believed to have become extinct in the 1930s. My kindergartner has decided to learn about clownfish and can now tell you all about their coexistence with sea anemones. My brainy kids have searched the Internet, asked the librarian for research help (in real books!), and have begun writing up the results of their research. The little one kept working the genus and species of the clownfish into conversation over Cheerios. That's one mom, of one type of kids, I could be today.
If I were looking to share my frequent seriously-where-do-they-get-such-goofiness-it-must-be-from-their-dad moments, I would tell you that while I was taking out the trash this morning, I heard the little morons run out to the driveway in their socks, whooping loudly. I turned to see them whipping something above their heads, lasso-style. Upon closer examination, I saw that the items being whipped around among the whooping were my bras. Really. How this occurred, I have no idea. The bras were inside the laundry room, behind a closed door, hung on the back of said closed door to dry. What possessed the idiot squad to (a) find them and (b) run around outdoors partially dressed in February in New England using them as lassos is a mystery to me.
I could have chosen to tell you only one of those stories. One would make me seem like an annoying braggart with overachieving kids. Perhaps you would have been impressed. Perhaps you would have been annoyed. The second story makes me seem like the Chief Idiot at the idiot convention, which is often how it feels around here. Both are real. Both are true. Both combine to tell you who I truly am.