My First Blog, AKA “The Blog About Why I Don’t Blog."
Sunny afternoons growing up in CA were prime time for creative play with my best friend down the street. We would roll our Barbie Motor Homes down the sidewalk to each other’s homes and play for hours. On rainy or not so warm days, we would “write” and illustrate books together, made from construction and binder paper. We invested hours dreaming up different characters and creating plot lines. Then we moved onto playwriting, where the starring roles were given to our Cabbage Patch Dolls. Costumes were carefully selected. Programs were designed, and some of the plays contained even contained musical interludes. Long and slightly painful performances were presented to the audience members (our moms) which I’m quite certain was a significant sacrifice of time and patience for the spectators. Nonetheless, our mothers sat, programs in hand, and applauded wildly like they had just seen Sandy Duncan as “Peter Pan” on Broadway.
A few years later, in the midst of the elementary school years, my dear neighborhood friend and I participated in a summer community theatre presentation of “The Wizard of Oz.” We were each cast in several small roles, everything from “chorus member”, to munchkin, to winged monkeys. In the same way, as my life has progressed, I have added roles to along the way. I started out as daughter, friend, student, then wife, later teacher, and next came the role of mother.
I’ll digress for a moment to share a couple of memorable adventures that occurred during my time performing “The Wizard of Oz” that summer: one was in the middle of a dance performance when my skirt literally randomly fell to my ankles mid-“shuffle-ball-change”. The audience burst out laughing (I absolutely would have to, in hindsight.) and I, paralyzed with fear, just stood there, not knowing what to do. I finally came to my senses, squatted down and grasped at the Velcro on the waist of the skirt, re-attached it, resumed dancing, AND…. I felt it give, and it dropped to the floor A SECOND TIME. You can’t make this stuff up, people. I could prove it if I only had that recording that some tech guy took on a huge video camera with double reels in the left back corner of the theatre. I swear there are people out there who sat through that performance and remember it clear as day because they were actually embarrassed FOR me, humiliated on my behalf. They were traumatized for life that night at the Community Center Theatre. I should be paying their therapy bills.
Another part of my role in thwas to press “play” and “stop” on a certain temperamental VCR (do you know of which I speak, kids? VCR? Anyone? Anyone….Beuller? Do you even know the movie I’m now referencing??) at the appropriate time between Dorothy’s lines. The VCR-plus-TV-combo was wheeled onstage during a particular scene, and it was supposed to represent a crystal ball. Now, how an audience member would ever be able to draw that conclusion, I’ll never know. (Hey, it was the 80’s, what more can I say? We were low-tech back then and you had to use your imagination, I guess.) The VCR was, in theory, supposed to dutifully play a portion of a VHS tape that showed a homemade cameo of the Wicked Witch of the West cackling and snarling, “I’ll get you, My Pretty!” One thing was certain: it was definitely scary, although perhaps not in the manner that was intended by the director. At any rate, my cue to press “play” was delivered by Dorothy. I pressed play and—apparently someone had neglected to dial (yes, I said “dial”, kids. It is--or was-- a verb.) the TV to the correct channel on which to view the video. (This VCR thing was all a very technical process, kids, I assure you. Far too technical for me to explain here in a way that you could possibly fathom.)
Suddenly, the song “Fame” mixed with static electricity boomed into the mic and throughout the PA system, the auditorium, and, seemingly, the universe. Figures gyrating in leotards and leg-warmers could be visually made out between the static lines on the tube. It only took seconds to confirm that the show “Solid Gold” was being broadcasted instead of my Wicked Witch video. Laughter erupted like a volcano. Needless to say, my childhood acting career was short-lived. That reel of film is also still kicking around somewhere, perhaps archived forever in someone’s basement, in a cardboard box collecting dust with some old yearbooks.
It seems as if writing is a (somewhat) better/safer alternative for me, at least as opposed to live stage performance. I am the self-appointed president of the “Fans of the ‘Delete’ Key” Fan Club. I’m asked with somewhat alarming regularity why I don’t write publically in a blog. I considered blogging back when I was a 10th grade English Teacher, and blogging was just starting to become a “thing.” Back then my life was a bit simpler and my husband and I were doing the “DINK” thing…(double income, no kids). But before I knew it, I would end up pregnant and the train had left the station…without the blogging car attached. Reflecting over the years I’ve come to realize how significant that childhood summer “Wizard of Oz” play has become in my life, and how the themes of the book correlate to the reasons (excuses?) why I currently don’t blog.
Like the Cowardly Lion, a lack of courage keeps me from writing. Fear of people’s reactions, my own self-criticism, and my own self-imposed expectations. One of the many beautiful things about childhood is the sense of fearlessness. I never remember being critical of my writing, or concerned about what others would think about it. All I remember is enjoying the process and having fun. Today, instead of the unafraid, enjoyable, self-expressive writing that I used to create, I liken myself more to Tom Cruise’s character in “Jerry McGuire” when he writes out his mission statement with passion and vigor…and then the next day freaks out and scrambles to get all the copies back before anyone reads it.
They say that brain cell volume decreases during pregnancy. As a mom who has weathered six pregnancies, I can definitely identify with the Scarecrow who laments, “If I only had a brain!” During my last pregnancy I had a gas station conundrum involving a near-miss with a forgotten gasoline hose that I neglected to detach from my vehicle before attempting to leave the premises. So I’m pushing 40, and not only am I often forgetful and distracted, it’s also been proven that most individuals born in 1990 or above have no idea what I’m talking about when I use pop cultural references from my youth, which makes me feel old and irrelevant. (Read the above reference to “VCR”. No, kids, I didn’t mean to type DVR.) I also don’t follow grammar rules when I write…therefore I fear people (and my own self) overanalyzing and criticizing my writing style, instead of just enjoying the process as I did in the fearless, uncomplicated, free days of my childhood writing.
Finally, the concepts of time-management, balance and self-care remind me of the ways I’m like the Tin Man. The Tin Man gets rusty and eventually freezes up when he doesn’t stay properly lubricated. At that point, he is of no use to anyone. I have had many, many points in my mothering where I have “let myself go”, or become the last priority on my own list, at least temporarily. I have been exhausted, mentally and emotionally, no sleep, little help, drinking to oblivion, etc. But it hasn’t served me well. More times than I care to remember, I have worn my “Bank Robber Outfit”: no makeup, sunglasses, hoodie, baseball cap and of course the standard-issue mom yoga pants (Which come in your parting gift “goodie bag” when you leave the hospital with your newborn in tow.) I personally don’t feel very good about myself in the Bank Robber Outfit. There is something about it that just screams, “I’ve completely given up!” Nothing about the Bank Robber outfit encourages a positive mental and emotional state for me. Too many days in the BRO (Bank Robber Outfit) turn me into Jack Nicholson’s character in “The Shining”. I soon find myself isolating and sitting in bed watching “Jerry Springer” or some other thought provoking, riveting TV show with a bag of Cheetos. I’ve had to fight at times to maintain both a healthy state of mind, and general peace of mind. They haven’t come without a price. But I’ve learned, at least for today, If I don’t continually strive to balance my responsibilities with my passions and self-care, I will “rust up” and be of no real service to those in my life.
Why start blogging now, at this point in my journey down the “Yellow Brick Road”? I guess, why *not* now? When it comes to this subject, I definitely suffer from the analysis paralysis syndrome. (Scarecrow.) If I don’t make the time to resurrect old passions in my life, and foster the growth of new ones, I will get rusty. (Tin Man.) After all, sometimes, it’s just time to start. Even if I don’t “feel ready.” I mean, am I really ever ready for anything? Part of the human experience of life for me is dealing with things I don’t “feel” ready for. Pregnancies, my babies growing up, illnesses of those I love, etc. If I waited until I “felt” ready, I’d probably be blogging from the grave. (Cowardly Lion.)
Of course we all know that at the end of the story when Dorothy wants to go back to Kansas, Glinda the Good Witch reminds her of the ruby slippers on her feet, which provide the power she is looking for. “You’ve always had the power, my dear… you’ve had it all along… You just had to learn it for yourself.” Feeling brainless, irrelevant, not worthy of making time for myself or self-expression, being fearful…. All of these insecurities are just delusional false beliefs that have become weeds in the garden of my adult life. They’re just BS. The childhood dreams, activities and pleasures are still a part of me, and they are still in there, under layers of years and a postpartum muffin top. And I think it goes without saying that the perfect accompaniment to the Bank Robber Outfit is, obviously, a pair of ruby slippers. ;)
XOXO,
A-Team Mom :)