To blog or not to blog – and what to blog – is something I constantly grapple with. Am I at liberty to share pics of my babe without her permission? Perhaps. I read in the newspaper supplement this morning –
in a column that I'm sure polarises opinions – "If the worst thing in your life is that your parents posted some photos of you dressed up as a frog or breastfeeding …. I mean, first world problems." True.
The piece then went on to quote
the most successful Mummy Blogger in the world – whatever that may mean – as she explains her take on privacy whilst blogging about children, "The experiences of babies and little kids belong to their parents because they’re pretty universal. All babies eat, sleep, cry, poo etc. All toddlers say cute things and put stupid things in their mouths and by sharing these stories online, new parents are simply replacing the village we’ve lost …. That’s why I feel like it’s okay to write so much about Marlo, because it’s the same story of a million other babies hopefully told in a way that we can all laugh about it enough to want to wake up tomorrow morning.”
Interesting. And again, true.
Lately I've not been sharing too much here. I've been in a down-right bad mood which I've only just lifted. So words written would have been negative and slightly depressing. But for the sake of our online village, let me tell you my recent insight on parenting, as I was recently discussing with my fellow grubby matriarch.
It comes to my attention that as my mothering skill increases, my personal hygiene goes down. More patience equals less showering. An increase in tolerance for mess is a decrease in time for brushing and flossing. The last time I shaved my legs I was politely asked to do so, by my husband, who is quite liberal when it comes to hair. Speaking of which last night as an attempt to save time (and shampoo) I washed mine with soap. Fancy olive oil baby soap, but still.... soap.
I've never been a well groomed and manicured person, but reasonably neat and tidy. These days by mid morning I look like I've had my arse kicked by a vegemite snot sandwich. My hair is clean on the day I wash it (once a week) and whilst I don't get around in sweat pants I often wear things with dinner remnants on them. (Thanks Freya – the Pho was delicious!)
These are standards I've now come to accept and embrace. As
Lexi mentioned, we're not here for Mummy Olympics. Having things a Bit Shit is better for the soul. It adds character. Imperfection is disarming, and more often than not just a little bit funny.
