Love it. Hate it. Blogging.

Love it. Hate it. Blogging.

A post about the love hate relationship with blogging Some days it feels amazing, other days it drives me insane. Blogging.

Three months in and I have mixed emotions on my newly acquired hobby.

Five Things That Drive Me Mad About Blogging.

 

1: That all-consuming moment when I have an idea just bursting to come out of my head but I have to sit at the dinner table, listening to my plumber husband telling me about how the pipe wouldn’t screw onto the o-ring and how it’s been a hell of a day.

In my head, I’m screaming “Shhhadd uuup!  I don’t care. Eat faster. Go and take the dog down the road for a poo so I can scribble some notes down”. But I have to sit there and say “Ahh, that’s nice, why didn’t you use your pipe twister?” Then smile. And wait. Like a demonic nutter.

2:  Every area of your life becomes an opportunity for a blog post.

The kids say something and I start muttering and chuckling to myself like a mad woman. Them, staring in disbelief and horror threatening, “you’d better not post that on FaceBook-I’m warning you.” Me, scribbling furiously with my little but end of a pencil on the back of the shopping list, shaking like a hag possessed.

3: The stupid amount of hours I’ve wasted on setting things up on my site, only to disappear again two days later. I think all blogs should be written on the back of supermarket receipts then thrown into the sky for someone to find. No stats. No header configuration. No ranky, wanky rating thingys. Ok, good point. I just don’t deal very well with anything techy. It drives me insane and makes me cry.

4: You start dreaming of a life where everything you have is sponsored and so therefore free.

Free holidays, free wine, free carpets. Free anything I could write a post on convincing people how amazing the product was.

The reality? Sending the kids to my mums for the weekend, getting sloshed on a bottle of cheap red wine, and putting my slippers on so I can’t feel the grit on the tiles in the kitchen.

5: Since I’ve started blogging my house is a shit tip.

 

Five Things I Love About Blogging

 

1: It’s something just for me. Blogging is mine. All mine. For the past sixteen years, everything I have undertaken ties to my kids in some way. Singing lessons so I can use my diaphragm to scream at them without hurting my voice.

Going to the gym in the mornings so I don’t have to listen to the same old crap about who’s turn it is to put the dishes in the dishwasher.

Meditation. They think I’m a weird new age freak. Good. It keeps them out of my bedroom for at least half an hour.

2: I hadn’t realised what an amazing community there is out there. I never believed for one minute that people, strangers, would be interested in reading my work. That other writer would take the time to connect with me and even comment on posts. If you’re a saddo like me with no friends (other than two teenagers who spend time with you through no choice of their own, and a bull mastiff dog with anxiety issues) it’s wonderful for your self-esteem.

3: You get to say stuff that you wouldn’t dare say in real life.   Meet me face to face and all I tend to say ”Ahhh, that’s nice.” A lot. Although to be honest, you’ll probably never get to meet me in real life because I’m antisocial. I just stay at home with my dog. And cry a lot in the toilet.

4: You get to read fantastic posts from extremely talented writers. Before I started blogging I’d scan the National Geographic for five minutes in the toilet each morning. That’s if I was lucky. Usually, it meant reading the same page over and over since I always lost my place. Now, I have an array of well written and more often than not funny posts at my fingertips. It’s so refreshing to read about other things other than why the world is running out of water and what the green-eyed frog lives on in Mozambique.

5:  I’d forgotten how much I love to write. I used to write letters to my friends when I was on holiday or when I went travelling. I’d write to my Grandma every week (admittedly in the hope that she’d cellotape a pound note to the inside of her next letter).

It’s a creative outlet. I love how it makes me feel when I release all of that ‘stuff’ inside of me. I feel incredibly lighter after I’ve written things down and a bonus? I’m a really nice person for about three hours after I’ve published a post.

Well. Maybe two.

A funny look at the politically correct way to question teenagers.

Oh… Bless him! I can’t seem to get it right but I always get it wrong.

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My child? Become a plumber? Over my dead body…

My child? Become a plumber? Over my dead body…

This is my husband, Brian. He is a plumber.

 

Last week in a cafe, I evesdropped overheard a woman despairing as to what her 18-year-old son was going to do with his life,

“He’s just wasting his entire life. I mean my God. At this rate, he’s going to end up being a plumber”.

This statement was accompanied by a look that one might have were they to walk in and find (more…)

Busted by my teenager

Busted by my teenager

Yesterday, whilst groaning, (it’s obligatory) my teenage son accused me of “Never saying what you really mean..”

Ohhhh, my boy. Don’t go there. Not today. Not when my meditation app has just told me to smile. From my eyes and my heart. Don’t give me conflict today. Pllleeaasse.

But, as usual, we continue. Along our jolly little ‘nearly 16-year-old’ way. Me, the shouldn’t get drawn in Mother, and him, the Son. The lovely young, but also you understand, sagacious, (16 in June) Son. And so, I attempt to answer. To justify this outrageous accusation. But before I do, I explain that I have to get a splinter out of my finger and rush to the sanctuary of the bathroom, at which point I sit on the bath and have a good long think.

Can you imagine It? If we Mothers, wives, daughters, friends, spent our whole lives saying exactly what we wanted to say. It would either be complete bliss or; we would find ourselves rocking in the corner. No friends, greasy hair, muttering the words over again, “I only told the truth. I just told the truth…”

You see, it’s not that we lie to our children per se, is it? No, we just …a little bit don’t tell the truth to them. Say words. Those words that don’t really count as lies. Those untruths. There. Untruths. That sounds more literate and therefore far more intelligent and kinder than lies, much more justifiable. Little Untruths. 

What I really wanted to say when ‘Mr. Clever Clogs I’m nearly 16 and so know-e-v-e-r-y-thing-there-is-to-know-about-e-v-e-r-y-thing ‘ was,

“Ahh, Shaddap”.


No… grow up, Liz. Your 46, not 9. I wanted to say

Actually…, NO.

Shaddap was what I really wanted to say, but…I didn’t. I couldn’t.

“You never say what you really mean.”

My God. He’s right. I’m a compulsive chronic liar. I’m one of those who doesn’t even know that they’re doing it.

Tell me. Enlighten me. Is it just me because I’m a homeschool mum with far too much teenage company on my hands, and therefore feel an obligation to spice things up a little in the trust department? Or do we all tell our children these glorious little-coded untruths?

What we really mean when we say to our kids…

  • ‘Look in the middle drawer in the kitchen’ (I’ve thrown it in the bin)
  • ‘I can’t remember’ (I’m not telling you)
  • ‘Have you used that new shower gel I bought you yet?’ (Get washed. You smell)
  • ‘I’m going for a walk with Dad’ (I need someone to moan to. About you.)
  • ‘Why don’t you all go and pick blackberries?’ (Go away. I want to surf the internet on my phone for half an hour)
  • ‘I’m just going to the toilet.’ (See above) 
  • ‘I think so …Yes’ (I haven’t got a clue who or what you’re talking about)
  • ‘What was Y’s Mum doing when you went over to his house last night?’(Tell me she was sloshed on the couch with an empty bottle of wine)
  • ‘Why don’t you have an apple if you’re hungry’ (Those crisps will make your spots worse)
  • ‘It’s been lovely these past few days without any distractions’ (I’m ecstatic that your computer’s broken)
  • How do I add a tag to this photo? (I do actually know how to do this. I just want you to feel sorry for me. For once)
  • ‘Do you prefer me with long hair or short?’ (I’m a hormonal wreck going through perimenopause, just say I look gorgeous with both.)
  • Want to come for a walk with the dog? ( I love talking to you)
  • ‘Act your age; you’re nearly 16’ (OMG you’re nearly 16. Please don’t leave home)
  • ‘It’s 11 pm! I don’t want to hear about your drama rehearsal’(lay down and let me stroke your hair)
  • ‘You’re driving me mad’… (I love you).    

Our little world of cryptographic language.

Maybe we do hide behind our words.  Never saying what we really mean. Making life more complicated than it needs to be with all our untruths.

Right then. Time for a change. I’m turning over a new leaf. As from now, I’m telling the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. No more underlying – excuse the pun – interpretations. No more, ‘guess what I mean what I really really mean .’

No.

The truth.


But maybe I’ll just leave out the bit about the spots.

And the smell.

And the fact that I broke his laser pen.

Just tell him I love him.

And stroke his hair.

And tell him I love him.

Some more.

 

 

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