As I'm new to this whole blogging thing, one of my favorite things to do is to check "stats." You can see how many people read your blog (thank you, my 8 loyal readers) and what country they are from. Every few days, I get a hit from some faraway person in Russia, Denmark, or England. I can only assume they accidentally mistyped my website while searching for porn.
But still I can pretend. Wasn't David Hasselhoff huge in Germany? Dare I only dream to have the kind of global appeal as "The Hoff?" A decades-long career spanning music, television and home-video footage involving a sloppy burger? Isn't this why my ancestors came to America?
I've taken to reading some blogs recommended by friends. Some are well-researched discussions of politics and the state of the world. Others are perfectly written thoughts on life and the pursuit of happiness. Even others are insider takes on celebrity news and happenings.
Then there's mine. Neither perfectly written or even remotely profound. Yet I remember what a college professor told me once when I was in too deep on a topic I neither liked nor felt all that comfortable discussing: Write what you know.
And what do I know? My life is steeped in carpool, laundry, and bathroom-related issues. So I'm writing what I know. I remember Erma Bombeck once wrote about a mother who battled serious depression and wrote Erma from prison. Prison Mom wished she could have learned to laugh at the thousands of absurdities and frustrations that frequent mothers everywhere. Had she known to look for the humor, she wrote that maybe she wouldn't have committed her horrible crime. That sentiment always stuck with me, even though it was well before I had children. It just sometimes takes a well-rested pair of eyes or very large cup of coffee to realize the hilarity of mind-numbing repetition sprinkled with random poo.
I'm sure many mothers enjoy being needed and providing endlessly for their children. Not me. While I love and provide for them, I won't feel truly rewarded until they are grown and prove to be self-sufficient and kind people. The stuff I do now is grunt work (wiping noses and tooshies). Later, there will be some finesse work (puberty and heartache). While my grand reward of successful adults (fingers crossed) is years away, I do enjoy the corporate perks of today: limitless hugs & kisses, and great material for the holiday newsletter. You just can't make this stuff up.
Like today for instance. For several months, we have been trying to teach Joey his birth date. He refuses to learn it, insisting his birthday is "under the sidewalk." Yet today we had a breakthrough. As I was talking about the weeds and grass I needed to kill that were coming up under the sidewalk, Joey got very excited. After all, that's where his birthday is.
Then I put it together. When all the boys ask when their birthdays are, my response is always, "it's coming up" (said because I got tired of doing the exact month/day/hour calculation to their next birthday). In other conversations, I would talk about what was "coming up under the sidewalk" (usually meaning weeds and grass). As Joey only thought of his birthday as "coming up," naturally it would be located under the sidewalk.
Perhaps one day, I'll again be able to discuss foreshadowing in Shakespeare and the fly as a symbol for death in all 19th century poetry. I'm just not capable of it right now. Yet when the highlight of one's week is decoding 3 year-old jargon, there just might not be any turning back.
But if that day ever arises, I will be sure to rename the blog and strive for literary greatness. Until then...shout out to Denmark!