My husband's coworkers have approached him about having me start a more commercially appealing blog about parenthood. According to them, I should also have a Twitter account so that I can share the antics of my children far and wide. Old high school friends, current friends, and far-reaching family all seem to be in agreement. It should culminate in a book or two that will hit the best sellers list and result in a fat paycheck.
I think that's awesome, and I'm humbled by their confidence in my ability to spin the craziness of motherhood into a humorous, if not positive, light.
However, I am firmly stuck on the fact that my rantings and ravings are a far, far cry from any other mother's experience with her child(ren). In fact, most of you reading this have stories of commiseration that you share every time I bring up the latest shenanigans. When I question the humorous angle I try to put on things, the Mom Army shows up with similarly hilarious, hair-raising accounts of all the times they wondered if motherhood was going to have massive casualties. My own mother could turn your hair white with the memories of horrors wrought by me and my brothers on a daily basis.
This doesn't even touch on the things my husband has admitted to doing as a child with his brothers. If I wore pearls, I would clutch them every time my husband said "back when I was a kid..."
This is not to say I won't give it a try. I'm currently compiling most of my Facebook posts about my kids and expanding on the their surrounding stories when I have a free moment or two (yes, I laughed at that, too). My husband and I brainstorm in passing about possible titles. He has a pretty sweet background in marketing, so that will hopefully be a breeze.
But the whole idea seems to be a "preaching to the choir" scenario that will fizzle quickly.
I guess we will see, depending on when/where/how/if it takes off.
I also need to brush up on my grammar. I used to outwardly proclaim pride in my grammar nazi-ism, perhaps erroneously, but I find more and more that my mistakes are becoming more frequent and pathetic.
Also, I typed up this entry while rolling a flat tennis ball under one foot beneath the desk. Then it occurred to me: we don't have any tennis balls. It was a half-eaten apple. I'll have fun getting that out of the carpet...
