Me: You haven't written a post about much of anything in a hot minute. What is going on with you?
Also Me: I know. I know. I have no idea. Maybe it's the two small jobs I have now? Maybe I'm over-loaded with freelance shit?
Me: Well, whatever it is, you need to figure it out. It's not like there has been nothing to write about. You've been busy, you. Babies are carving pumpkins and playing in the leaves. You finally started decorating the house after 4 years. You family is always saying hilarious and awesome things. I mean...there's so much to write about.
Also Me: <afraid to say it even to myself> I think I'm a bit....nervous? Like maybe I have stage fright or some such nonsense?
BAM!!!! That's when my two selves high-fived each other and came back together as one. I have fucking stage fright.
Yep, stage fright. And it's funny because I am a performer at heart. I was a theater major for Jimmy's sake. I love to sing and dance and write and tell stories and get up and let loose. Yet every time. Every single time, there is fear.
DAMN YOU, HUMAN EMOTIONS!
So let me tell you a little story about a little kid that was not yet Mama Pants.
I remember hiding behind a closet door practicing an audition piece for a babysitter. My mom had told her that I had to practice that night. I tried all of my bag of tricks to talk her in to giving me a pass. I was terrified. My face burned with flush. My voice shook in terror. It was too intimate. I was in her living room, man. And I didn't know her very well. There was no stage. No bright lights to blind me from seeing her. There was no pianist to play with me. It was just me and my little 8 year old singing voice and DAMN, I was freaking my tiny freak. So I hid behind that closet door and sang with tears in my eyes. I will never forget it. I even remember her name, her mom's name and her brother's name. I can still smell her house, too. Vanilla candles. I even remember her bad perm. The next week I got up on a stage and sang my face off for the audition with minimal fear.
So what does any of this have to do with anything?
Well with a few posts sky-rocketing through cyberspace (and I think that's pretty cool) I have been hiding in that closet. I'm a writer and want to be read. I mean, duh. So hell yes, I want my work passed around Facebook and any other place it can be shared. HELL YES! But it also challenged me. Because having a viral post is new and strangely intimate. And having to delete mean comments is new and feels a bit like I'm naked. Getting hate email is new and kind of terrifying And while there are so many awesome things that it brings, too (hello amazing and supportive emails). Those parts I mentioned made me want to hide behind the closet door in my own living room.
This site. THIS is my living room. This is my heart. This is where I write my life. And this is where I was afraid to come again. And that suuuuucked. I know, I know...#BloggerProblems. It probably seems naive to some and that's OK. It might even seem ridiculous. But I really didn't see it coming. And now that it has I have learned some shit about myself. Partly because I ate my weight in scallops on a hot date with Brandon (Yep, I'm still eating my feelings). Partly because I bought some new and very purple curtains to add some color to the living room (Yep, I still engage in retail therapy). And partly because I found a quilt for three bucks at the thrift store that I love more than most anything else in this house (except the other people here). But mostly because I needed to re-learn that while it's ok to feel these human emotions, it's not OK to sink and hide forever.
It's a good lesson. I toughed up a bit. I thickened my skin. BUT I'm not letting it get too thick. Because that is not me. I'm a Feelings McFeeler and yes I know that sounds creepy. It's cool.
You know, I wonder sometimes what these kids will think when they read all of this jibber-jabbery and emotional word barfing that I'm slinging at high speeds into the internet. I hope they will see that I was just telling my story. I hope they will see my bones. Wait that was gross. I want them to see my guts. Hrm, that's not right either. Let me start over.
I hope that they see who I am through these stories. Just like I hope you do now. But I want them to know me on a level that is beyond "just mom". I want them to know that I had ideas and that I wasn't afraid to put them out there. Well, maybe that I was afraid but that I put them out there still. And I want them to know that even with my voice shaking a bit and my cheeks flushed with hot red, their mama eventually stepped into the living room from behind that door. Because therein lies the lesson.