I actually got out of bed to write this post because I love you THAT MUCH

A couple weeks ago, my friend called one evening, and Mr. WG answered the phone. I heard her ask if I could go out that evening, and I heard Mr. WG say, "Oh, I really hope she doesn't go anywhere." Whereupon I decided that NO MATTER WHAT I was being invited to -- I mean, even if my friend was calling to ask me to help her scrub vomit off her bathroom tile -- I was going.

Fortunately, there would be no cleansing of bodily fluids. Rather, she was calling to ask if I wanted to go to hear an author speak at the JCC book fair.

"The JCC is having a book fair?"

I am nothing if not hip to cultural events.

Anyway, yes, the JCC was having a book fair, and some authors were speaking, and there were two scheduled for the evening, one at 7:30 and one at 8. I chose the 7:30 one, because (1) it would get me out of the house sooner and (2) the price listed, $15, included the book.

My friend and I arrived and found out that we just made the 21-35 age cutoff, and for $5, we could just hear the author speak and then come back and buy the book later if we wanted to. That sounded pretty good, because I am, well, cheap, and why BUY a book that I can read for free from the library, which is perhaps not the best attitude for a, you know, WRITER, but whatevs.

So, we sat down in our chairs, and my friend immediately got up to go the bathroom before the talk started, and while she was gone, I looked around the room, and when she came back, I leaned over and whispered, "I think this is a singles event!" She looked around and looked at me and we knew. The age limit started to make sense. As did the overload of perfume and tight tops.

But we had paid, and we were going to get our money's worth. So, the author. Hal Niedzviecki started to talk, and he is FUNNY. And smart. And his book is called The Peep Diaries and you should read it, because it is really good.

Hal (we're going to be on a first name basis because there is NO WAY I can pronounce his last name) writes about "How We're Learning to Love Watching Ourselves and Our Neighbors " -- that's actually the subtitle of his book. So he writes about, in part, bloggers who put themselves out there, why we do it, why other people read it, and so on.

So, he spoke, and then he took questions, and then he went to go sign books and stuff. And so my friend and I grabbed a quiet couch and sat and talked, and she asked me what I would have asked, since there wasn't time for all the questions and mine went unasked. I told her.

My question is what Hal thinks of parents who blog about their kids. Parents like, you know, ME. Parents who put their kids stories out there in the world and take the choice away from the children. Is it OK?

I told my friend that this is a question I wrestle with frequently, this telling of D's story. But ultimately, obviously, I choose to do it, partly because if I didn't, I wouldn't actually be able to be D's mother.

Now, if I had actually read the book, I would have known exactly what Hal thinks: Hal thinks that sucks. He HATES it when parents put their kids' lives online without giving the kids a say. And my friend and I actually did go into the main book fair room and catch up with Hal, and I asked him that then, and he pretty much said that.

So my friend -- because she's a psychologist -- starts trying to smooth over his answer, at which point Hal realizes that I AM ONE OF THOSE PARENTS, and HE tries to backtrack a little, "Well, you know, if you're putting pictures of little Moshe up there taking his first steps--" which was amusing in its own right, of course, but I didn't take the time then, at that moment, at that meeting, to explain my blog and myself.

This means, of course, that I've spent the last few weeks wondering what Hal would actually think of my blog. Is it OK, what I do? I constantly seek reassurance that it is, because I do feel, on some level, that it violates my son's privacy. But, it comes back to what I've said before: I have to do this.

I have to do it because when people in your everyday, real life pass you in carpool line and say, "Hey, how are you?" the correct answer is, "Fine, thanks!" They don't want to hear what you are actually thinking and feeling and how close you are to just getting in your car and driving...away.

I have to do it because people who should know better say stupid things. And even if they say them with the best of intentions and from a place of love, they sting. And I prefer to maintain at least the semblance of normal relationships with my family and the few friends I've managed not to alienate, so I can't tell them, "Hey, Asshole! SHUT UP." So I blog.

So, friends, if you know Hal, ask him what he thinks. I'm genuinely interested and would love to hear it. And, of course, I'm interested in your takes, too. Is there something inherently awful about what I'm doing?

P.S. Even though I checked the book out from the library, I did buy a copy of it for my brother for his birthday.

Follow me!

Um, this is slightly embarrassing, but I have actually started tweeting. So, feel free to follow me. And yes, that is my real name on that page. Also, I do remember that I have a blog, and I am *not* using Twitter as a replacement for the blog. I have just been off my game a bit, what with having five children and whatever. Apologies. Seriously working at a better schedule, and starting to think I have it under control. Several posts in progress, and should have some time over this week to get them up. Thanks for hanging in there.

Epistle: To D., on the Occasion of His Sixth Birthday.

Oh my freaking gosh, D., you are six. SIX. You have been on this planet, been in our lives for SIX YEARS. Part of me thinks this is absolutely impossible, because I, of course, am a mere 19 years old and it is 1994. And another part of me thinks this is impossible because you were just a little baby, and we weren't sure you would ever walk, and we didn't know if you would talk, and we didn't know -- well. You get the picture. And part of me feels like you've always been here, always been a part of my life.

I can hardly remember who I was before you. I can hardly remember a time when I didn't know what an occupational therapist did. When I was unfamiliar with the acronyms that populate the special needs world. When I was perhaps more innocent but -- and I have to be careful here, because I'm trying to convey a lot in words that seem insufficient to the task.

What I mean to say is, life was easier before you, for sure, but I'm not sure it was as worthwhile. And I don't mean that in a Chicken Soup-y kind of way, like all kids with special needs and their families are one big, happy, group of people who are SO HAPPY TO HAVE THE OPPORTUNITY and blah blah. Not that. What I mean is, you made me more cognizant of my own capacity for love and patience. You taught me about advocacy and strength. You teach me daily what hard work really is. And you give me a pretty decent excuse to speak my mind to random strangers at Target.

If I didn't have you, I would probably take a lot more for granted. So many people, after all, have healthy, whole children and never stop to marvel at the sheer wonder of it. I certainly didn't, back when I was a mother to two little girls.

It's only in retrospect that we appreciate our good fortune, I suppose.

There are days, my love, when I catch you with that glazed look in your eye, or when you're flapping your arms and grunting, or when your mouth is hanging open, and I would be lying, flat out lying, if I said that it didn't make me absolutely BATSH*T CRAZY to see you like that. It doesn't mean I don't love you, because obviously, I do. I think that's probably the hardest part. Like all mommies, I love you so much, and I want only the best for you, and I just have a hard time reconciling "the best" with... flapping.

There are days, my love, when I see you with the critical eye of a stranger, even if it's only for a moment, when I see the external, when I hyperfocus on what is there and present and obvious. And then you turn and smile, and that smile, that smile, it opens up my heart and the very heavens sing. It touches everyone around you, that smile. The one I see when I come to pick you up from school, and you tear yourself away from your friends and race over to me, hug me so hard I stagger backwards, and shout, "It's my MOMMY!" The pride in your voice, on your face as you tell everyone in the school, "Look who's here!" You astound me.

You force me to confront the worst parts of myself, it's true, but you also force me to be better. To do more. To advocate. To educate. To teach tolerance -- but not to tolerate ignorance.

I love you, more than I can possibly say. More than I can ever express. I love you.

Love,
Mommy

Passive Aggression

I have to say it somewhere, so I'll say it here. If you are in charge of an organization that holds a big event and you have employees who work on it and volunteers who work on it, and you write a public thank you naming only the employees -- who GOT PAID TO WORK ON IT -- but not the volunteers, you are not going to make a lot of friends.

I'm just saying.

And I realize that this has nothing to do with this blog or whatever, but it does, if you think of this blog as the place I go to dump all the crap I would otherwise carry around inside.

And that is all.