I’m Nobody! Who Are You?

A few days ago, I got an email from someone asking me if she could write a guest post on this blog. I don’t know who she is, and she didn’t tell me why she wanted to write on my blog. I wrote her back and thanked her for her interest, and then asked her how she found my blog. I also asked her what kinds of things she’d like to write about, and whether she could send me some samples of her writing so I could get a sense of her style. (Because, c’mon, we’re talking about buying unmentionables and potty training on this blog. We keep it classy up in here.) I haven’t heard back from her.

We went to Comet Ping Pong for Jesse’s birthday Tuesday night. The Cure, Depeche Mode, EMF, and the Violent Femmes played over the speakers as we ate and I felt like I stepped back to the summer going into my Freshman Year of high school. What an odd feeling it is to almost be able to touch 14 again and yet what’s tangible is the family that surrounds me at the table when I’m 36.

Afterwords, we played ping-pong (Comet Ping Pong’s pizzas are outstanding, but you have to play a round or two of ping-pong, too).

Harper played for awhile but then stopped because she saw Jesus and wanted to talk about that.

She looked at the picture awhile then asked, “Where’s God?”

“All around us?” I ventured but she didn’t seem to like that answer.

That’s when I thought, “These are my memories, my stories, and I don’t want anyone else to write them for me.” I don’t give advice on this blog. It’s not really a writing blog, though I like to think I’m practicing the craft by telling a story. And I guess it could be called a Mommy blog, but really what this is a kind of journal.

I’ve heard that guest blogging is a great way to get readers. I heard Twitter is, too. I won’t lie, I want readers. I want people to read my blog and oh man do I want to BE a writer. But I don’t know if I want someone else to write on my blog. I want to be in charge of the story I’m telling. It’s sort of like how I feel about sandwiches. I won’t share them. I’ll tell you how good they are, but I don’t want you eating my sandwich. It’s too good: with the basil and the oregano and the fresh mozzarella and the bread that’s smooshed down just how I like it. I’d love to sit down with you and eat together, and I’ll guarantee you that I’ll tell you a story while we sit together. I love telling stories. But you have to figure out what ingredients you like on your sandwich. Feel free to tell me about it, but keep your sandwich on your own plate.

As we were leaving Comet Ping Pong, a group of young teenagers walked in, boys and girls. Hadley watched them intently, studying them with eyes wide. I watched them, too. I watched the boys, rowdy and laughing loudly, and the girls, split into two groups, one eyeing the other shyly. I looked at Hadley and I knew what she was thinking. She wanted to join them, she wanted to be like them. I watched her change her stance, pat her hair a bit, then step closer to the big kids. I thought about my 14 year old self and all the stories I can tell Hadley and Harper when they’re ready.