A friend of mine used to work at the fanciest hotel downtown where, among other things, he saw really big name bloggers come to attend conferences.
From my friend, I learned that these bloggers with the carefully curated blogs detailing their charming and beautiful lives are exactly as I mentally expected they might be.
They do things like stage photo shoots where they jump on posh hotel beds with each other. Look at how silly and spontaneous we are! (Never mind that it’s staged and someone was compelled to take the professional-looking snaps.) We are spunky, etc! Joie de vivre leaps from our Instagram posts into your face!
Another real-life thing famous mom bloggers do is take pictures of their feet, while wearing pointy-toed heels (generally patent-leather red, bright yellow, or suede animal-print), with their toes turned slightly inward. You know, because it’s girlishly sassy.
“What’s her beef with bloggers?” you may be asking yourself as you read this.
Well, nothing really. I do not mean to be such a pill (okay, yes I do). There is no real beef, except that I don’t understand them. Or rather, I do not get the collective fascination with them.
Outfits of the day. Their children’s eclectic, boutique wardrobes. Shots of their bikini bods at the beach. Shots of their workouts. Pics of the amazing raw dinners they are sculpting in their white, glossy kitchens. Close ups of their gorgeous faces and perfect hair with a caption about how they cleaned up a pee-pee mess on the bathroom floor that one time and it’s hard to be a mom on days like that.
So life for some folks appears essentially glorious. Slow claps for those fashionable bloggers. I salute them for achieving so much beauty everyday.
“But aren’t you a mom blogger yourself?” you may be thinking, astutely.
I am a mom and I do indeed blog….about my daily life raising children with disabilities. Same medium, different style and content. My life couldn’t be more different from the glamorous blogger’s aesthetic life. How do you make a Code Brown, psychotic episodes, and being on the phone with the psychiatrist and the special-needs school every day look pretty?
There is no choice but to tell it like it is. The ugly truth. The real deal. The beautiful disaster.
I do not mean to disparage the famous mom blogger. Clearly, she’s good at what she does. People follow her because they like something about the vision that her blog projects. While, I do not share the desire to peek inside one woman’s idea of a perfect world, I do admire anyone who can arrange the elements of their lives to appear so effortlessly amazing. Famous bloggers have their gifts, which include:
*Being good at self-promotion.
*Funding a photogenic lifestyle from an income-generating commercial blog.
*Being avant-garde in the style department.
*Consistently delivering their schtick.
They are successful for a reason. The real question, I suppose, is, why are so many us of enamored with this sort of blog?
I keep asking myself if I am writing from a place of envy. I don’t feel envious of what famous bloggers do. I wouldn’t mind the income of a fancy pants blog, and I seriously wouldn’t mind the trips they seem to always be taking to the tropics.
But raising children with disabilities, particularly a severely disabled child, renders me incapable of joining this chic and sexy blog world. I could no more be one of them than I could expect Jack to stop playing with vacuums and come help me craft a whimsical miniature village from paper, felt, and glitter. That life is completely out of reach for me, 100% off my radar.
I do not mourn this, but I startle at the striking differences between this life and the curated presentation of practically perfect ones.
I blog from a place of desperation. Writing down the weird, wild things that happen to us transposes some of the burden from my shoulders to the web, where people can read it when they experience beautiful blog fatigue. Please don’t see this as a cry for validation, honestly.
If the big name mom bloggers are the cool kids drinking green smoothies at the popular table in the school lunchroom, I suppose I am the girl sitting at a table in the corner with her two best friends, enjoying her PBJ while we make each other laugh about what happened that day in Honors’ English.
I like my friends, and my corner table, and my PBJ, and laughing.
I’d rather be me.