Writing a blog can be detrimental to your social life.
Or so I’ve heard.
People either friend you because they want to be mentioned or they are terrified to talk to you for fear they will be mentioned.
And then, there are those who say things like, “You really put a lot out there. Are your kids ok with this?”
To which I say, “What do you mean? You mean when I mention things like my son’s ADHD? Yeah, he’s ok with that. He’s not ashamed of it. There’s a lot I don’t mention but most of what I do, they’re ok with.”
Here’s what I coulda’ woulda’ shoulda’ said, had I either been thinking on my feet or just downed a martini:
I am not a Disney mom blogger. Nor am I a “social promoter,” one of those women who blogs and tweets about new ways to incorporate Kraft products into your recipes. You’ll never catch me being called “Mommy Mouseketeer” or “Blonde Mom”. And yes, I feel confident saying “never.”
I am a writer. Writers write because it’s in our blood. And nowadays, writers who want to remain relevant, use social media. They blog. They tweet. They Facebook.
I am also a person who doesn’t like bullshit. I prefer you be straight with me. You don’t have to share all of your dirty laundry, but you also don’t have to pretend your failing marriage is a model of stability. You don’t have to hide your children’s transgressions lest I judge them harshly (they’re children—transgressions are a learning tool, no?). You don’t have to keep up with the Joneses for me. Chances are, I neither know nor care about the Joneses.
So if I feel my calling is to be a writer and I don’t want to put up with your bullshit, logic tells me I should not shovel any into what I serve you on my blog.
So yes, honey, you will find out my son has ADHD, a fact he has shared with classmates freely. You will also find out—horrors—that he is not a perfect son and I am not a perfect mother. But if you hadn’t figured that out by your advanced age, I feel no guilt in enlightening you.
I know you think you know me—from school, from cocktail parties, from a chance meeting in the grocery store—but I’m not really writing for you. I’m not writing for the voyeurs who will read to get a glimpse into someone else’s life so they have something to gossip about at the next girls’ night out. I am writing for the hundreds of people out there that I may never meet, but can relate. Who are able to feel a pain they were struggling with because I was able to express it for them in words that weren’t coming, no matter how hard they tried. For the mothers who try their damndest with kids who make it messy sometimes—especially the moms doing it on their own.
I am proud to be a writer. I am proud of being as honest as I can be without being truly hurtful to others. I am proud to see my boys realizing that in truth, there is strength. That no matter what you do or don’t put out there, playing it safe does not a life make. That there is more honor in being in the ring, come success or failure, than sitting ringside making sarcastic comments.
There’s a reason I’m called candidkay. Without the candid, it’s not me. And I don’t think most of you would read bullshit, or you wouldn’t be following me.
So thank you to everyone who feels it. Who reads without judgment or horror or disdain.
And to the rest of you, I must say, candidly, there’s a Disney mom blogger out there somewhere waiting for you to follow her. And I think she’s just itching to share a recipe with you. A bland concoction with little spice.
Should suit you just fine.