So Much Confession!

The other day, down here in the momming rabbit hole, my wife told me I better stop it.  She said I needed to look at all that I am posting and think about my purpose.  Think about what it means to share all this really personal garbage on this blog, and then go one step further and post that I've posted on Facebook.  Or, as she thinks of it, "Lookatmelookatmelookatmebook".

Julie, you see, is not a braggart, nor an open book, nor a neurotic and compulsive indulger in self-help and self-improvement like I am.

She well enough likes herself just the way she is.  And she needs not tell that to anyone.  True story:  for the first two months of an acquaintanceship in our old neighborhood, new friends of mine thought Julie was deaf.  Because she just doesn't do this thing I do where I immediately paw all over people with my social tentacles and start talking about how I had lice like three times in fifth grade approximately three minutes after I've met them.

That is SO COOL, Howard Hughes!

(Here's a picture of Julie's ass.)

Wish I was that way.  You see, I've thought and thought about this over the last few days and at first I felt reeeaaaallly icky.  Like, "Hey, yeah, who am I to think anyone wants to read this self-agrandizing dribble and constant, tiring self-examination?"  Be more like Jennifer, or Kristen, or one of these other friends that is super smart and well adjusted and feels no need to advertise their experience of simply being alive thank you very much, I say to myself.  Be more self-assured.  Or something.

I understand the desire not to be exposed, I guess.

 (Julie's ass)

But then of course, I decided to think about her concern in a more three-dimensional way (because she is generally supportive and does, for reasons that haven't become clear, seem to love me) and realized that she was just encouraging me to be sure I had a purpose for all this sharing that went beyond simple self-involvement and an uncontrollable bend toward emotional diarrhea.

I decided I don't.  Blog Over.

Bye.

(Here is where you are like, can she do it?  Can she go one fucking day lately without sharing her 'journey'?  She can't!  Watch her, she can't do it.  Old girl will have to go on and on talking about all her chest-fluffing parenting successes and then fall all over herself whining about the failures too. She can't do it...watch...Shu.  Girl needs to send us all a $20 copay)

Oh, hi!  Were you just talking about me?  That's so weeeeird, because I was just talking about me!

(And Julie's ass.)

And I think I might keep on talking about me.  And all this.  All this great big gorgeous mess I've created around me.  Here's why:

I am parenting From Scratch and it is really hard.  I do NOT know what I am doing.  So I am looking to others, like the really great writer and human being Glennon Melton from Momastery and seeing how they get through this.  One way they get through is by writing and by sharing with other people in the same situation all the humor and horror that goes with this being a parent thing.  I find I have a similar mechanism to find clarity through writing and sharing.  And sometimes it makes people laugh, or cry, or feel like we are all in this shit together.  So I am going to keep on doing it.  Sorry Howard.  I love you.  Here's a Kleenex.


P.S.  Thank you to Phinny for all the handy pictures of Julie's ass.  You will be named in the court documents as a party to the dissolution of marriage.