I've been thinking a
lot lately about how I present myself via the various forums of life. How does Will see me as a mother? How do the sisters feel about me being the secretary in our Relief Society? What impression do I give of myself to complete strangers, to God, to myself? Amidst all this, I read a few interesting blogs that have really gotten me thinking.
This started a few months ago when I read a friend's blog. She has a gorgeous little family, her husband is in med school. She takes all these incredible pictures. It really took me aback, and I thought, "Wow. This girl has really got it together. What have I been doing with my life all this time?" Just a few days later, she wrote a post about her reality. How, as a young mother, her house is a mess, she doesn't shower as often as she'd like, etc. She said she wasn't trying to promote her life as being perfect, but she didn't feel like a public forum like a blog was the appropriate place to air her dirty laundry.
Then, a couple weeks ago, I was reading a different friend's blog, and (gasp!) I almost never finish reading her posts because they just don't make me feel good. I realized that every single post was a criticism of something. Doesn't this person find any joy? In anything? She is unwittingly giving the world the impression that she is a mean, critical person.
Just last week I was reading yet another friend's post. She was writing about how she wanted to accomplish something with her blog, beyond posting pictures and giving general updates. She wanted to write things that were meaningful to her, and not just her readers. She wanted to write something real amidst all the shiny, tidy, cleaned-up versions of our lives that we tend to post on our blogs so that other people will think we're as fabulous as we wish we were.
Oh, how I needed that reminder. It is so easy to get caught up in making the presentation look good. I agree with my first friend's post, that one shouldn't necessarily seek to publicize one's trials and flaws. But reading my third friend's post made me remember that there really isn't room in this world for pretension of any kind. And while I don't want to constantly be listing my grievances, I remembered in a BIG way that some of the most meaningful writing I have read has been honest and gritty. And I like the grit. Like sanding old paint off a piece of fine wood, the rough and difficult things we feel and experience as readers actually smooth away the surface, revealing something natural and beautiful. So here's to writing about what's real.
(A note about reality before we proceed: It has become very popular for the term "real" to be associated with negativity. Especially in the media, "reality" usually refers to the doldrums of life, the things we do because we have to do them. But this is obviously a corruption of the language. Case in point: You're on vacation, and close to the end of it someone is bound to say, "A couple of days and we'll be back to reality." What does that mean? The joy and relaxation are every bit as real and tangible as the grueling workweek. What they meant to say is that you'd be back to everyday life. But I'm here to say that in order for something to be real, it most likely is fairly complex, composed of elements both good and bad.)
So, to kick off this return to being real, here are a few honest things about me:
*I LOVE Barbra Streisand. I can't help it. Sandwiched between my Pink Floyd and moody modern folk is more than one Streisand album. Some people, mostly men, have a really hard time with this woman. But so many people put out such GARBAGE and while this comedienne's record isn't spotless, it's pretty close. For the most part, she sings simple love songs that are anything but offensive. Go ahead. Make fun of me. But whenever I hear "Evergreen" my heart swells to near the bursting point.
*I love my son. I am still learning to love motherhood. This job is hard. I have had the luxury of getting fairly close to my dream job and realizing that it was empty and void of any personal meaning. I have had the luxury of knowing with my head that motherhood is exactly what I want to do with my life. I wish sometimes there was more off-time than the few after-bed hours before I have to be responsible and get myself some rest so the sleep-deprived, crazy woman just beneath the surface doesn't make an appearance. I am at times frustrated and overwhelmed. That said, I am fortunate to be able to get myself fully dressed and made up by noon almost every day. Will is a mellow, curious child who loves to watch me blow my hair dry. And NOTHING compares with the delicious wet kisses he's been so liberal with lately.
*I wish I were the kind of woman who could wear red lipstick and mean it. And not look like I'm a little girl playing dress up with mommy's make-up.
*I am completely intimidated by other women (well, by a LOT of things, actually). I have no "mom" friends nearby I can hang out with when I feel like getting out of the house, so yesterday, I bravely joined a local mother's group at the church. I told myself I'd stay for an hour before I made a lame excuse and left. I was there for 45 minutes before I couldn't handle the stress any more. I didn't even make a lame excuse. People were very nice and inviting. But they all knew each other. I may be brave enough to go back next week. I'm not very good at making friends.
Well, this is all I can think of at the moment. None of this may be very meaningful, but it is true. Now I'm going to go find something naughty to eat while I contemplate doing something worth while. Good night for now!
Posts
