So I am a huge fan of Dooce, who makes everything goddamn thing sound hilarious, and for long before her reign I was a huge fan of Catherine Newman, who is such an excellent writer and conveys such poignancy and depth that I cannot help but cry every time I read anything that she has written.
These are the Mommy-Bloggers. Some people are for it and some people are against it and personally, I love it. I love looking into the window that it their lives and knowing that other people are thinking and feeling and doing all of those very same things with their own children.
Yet I do not write about my child. I do, but I never publish it. Not because I’m afraid, and not because I don’t think the whole world shouldn’t know about the enormity of my love for this small, very passionate little person, but because… I take that back. I am afraid.
It’s just… have you ever loved someone so hard that it hurts every fiber of your being? Not just your soul, but your body, every cell of it being wrenched so hard in this one direction and you know, not just think, but KNOW that your life is intricately and irrevocably woven into this one small person? It’s a raw, open wound of a love, and you cannot stop it or shut it down even long enough to close your eyes, much less breathe. It’s joy, yes, but it’s agony and frustration, complete vulnerability in the knowledge that this person’s happiness is now your own, and their life and safety determines your life, and your safety. A piece of you has been torn out to be reincarnated into another being, and you can’t get it back. You can’t be whole again.
Yeah. I know that was so abrupt but that’s just the way it is. Abrupt. Sudden. Permanent.
And very, very scary.
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