All Blogs Are Hideous At Age Eight. It's Quite Normal.
November 28, 2011
Oh my God, you guys, this blog is eight years old today.
Eight years, I have been blabbering on about whatever it is I blabber on about. No wonder I'm running about of things to say. Can't I just tell the volcano story again? Or the oven fire or the bird or Newark and also luggage cart? Could I perhaps start a business selling ready-made birth stories for today's busy modern momblogger who is too busy writing sponsored product reviews to deal with the whole messy, overwrought emo side of the business?
Eight years. I was in my 20s, in the city, in an office, in heels. I am currently in none of those things. Now it is: 30s, suburbs, work-from-home-bed-nest, bedroom slippers.
(Though I still own all the heels. I'm just more apt to whine about them when I wear them.)
There's also that whole THREE BOY CHILDREN plot twist that happened along the way. The me of eight years ago would NEVER have seen that coming, and probably would have been a tad horrified at the prospect, which makes me want to point and laugh at her, because man, that uppity bitch totally had this coming.
At the risk of sounding ancient as all hell and get off my virtual lawn-ish, it's really gobsmackily crazy how different the Internet is now. It was so...small, and yet wildly exciting huge and untamed and new. I didn't even start a blog, I started an online journal. Because that meant you were more writerly, or at least longer-winded and less inclined to edit.
*puts on monocle and holds dainty teacup*
There were no ads or ad networks and the great Sell-Out debate centered around whether it was tacky to put an Amazon wishlist or PayPal button on your site. I had no idea how to handle drama or trolls or criticism or how to even be all that authentic. My early entries manage to be both embarassingly personal overshares and experiments in playing an online character. I was wildly excited to realize that people were reading and commenting and linking, and then I'd go home for the holidays and my dad would advise me to stop wasting my time entertaining my dumb friends online and get back to you know, real writing.
Anyway, blah blah blah different time new world blogging-as-viable-career-path-cakes. Let me get back to what's really important, to what defines this blog-thing now, eight years and probably millions of run-on sentences later: GROSS STORIES ABOUT BABIES AND WHY BABIES ARE GROSS.
1) We took the boys to see The Muppets on Wednesday. Mini-review: Super-duper fun and awesome, especially for grown-ups, but perhaps about 15-20 minutes too long for little kids. That last quibble was perfectly evidenced by Ezra, who -- during the last of about three quietly emotional turning points in the movie where somebody learns something about the value of friendship -- decided to shriek I GOTTA GO POOP at the top of his lungs.
2) Then we came home and I was playing with Ike on the couch, lifting him up in the air and making goofy faces at him, like mo-oooo-ooooom, you're so lame and embarassing, and he chose that exact moment to remind me that we are NOT fully past the days of the turbohork and yes, I am using my blog's eighth anniversary post to tell you about the time my baby barfed on my face and it got in my mouth. What of it? BEHOLD, MY LIFE'S WORK. IT IS RICH WITH MEANING AND PURPOSE BUT CLEARLY NEEDS MORE FART JOKES.
(Eight years and counting and I still haven't bothered to learn Photoshop.)
(And as God is my witness I probably most likely never will, because bleh.)