Please don’t be mad.
Come on, baby. Don’t be like that.
You see, the comments I was receiving were falling mostly into one of two categories:
Fuck that bitch.
Fuck YOU, bitch!
And frankly, I wasn’t fond of either.
I posted some comments that were critical of my blog in order to show that I don’t JUST publish the sycophantic comments. That opened the floodgates for further comments and it didn’t take long for them to turn to insinuations about my parenting and my child that make me want to spit hot fire.
I’m a good enough mother. I’m sure I could be better. I know for damn sure I could be worse. I have tried my best to preserve my daughter’s dignity, privacy, and identity. I used to post photos of her when I first started blogging, but she just looked like a chubby baby, and most chubby babies look alike (just like Winston Churchill, my friend Trixiebell points out). I took down some more recent photos of Baby V. There are creeps out there, and I don’t want them scrolling through pictures of my child.
When a person makes herself a public figure by posting thousands of pictures of herself, using her real name, and giving intimate details about her life, that’s pretty ballsy. It’s not something I’m interested in doing. My writing is for public consumption. My life is not. That’s me.
When thousands of people declare how beautiful and perfect a person is, it tends to make some people frown and say out of the corner of their mouths, “She isn’t THAT cute…” Observe the huge Megan Fox backlash on www.celebitchy.com. I agree, however, that it’s unkind to criticise someone’s specific features. I have crooked teeth, close-set eyes, blotchy skin, and cellulite. I am average in the attractiveness department. I would not want to hear what people have to say about my looks, were I to include numerous photos of myself here (there are a few in the old posts). So, I deleted the comments that insult a blogger’s physical features.
I have more to say about this, and I’m sorry to leave you hanging, but my child just finished her snack and I want to play with her before she goes to bed.
Annnnnnd, I’m back. Odie came home from his Men’s Warehouse errand having made a stop at Borders, so we enjoyed some new books together before bed. He also bought her some stuff to entertain her on the plane this Friday. We’re taking our first trip together as a family and I’m scared shitless (and not just of the credit card bill), but that’s another post.
I was talking about deleting your comment. Again, don’t freeze me out, baby. Not after you’ve been so good to me. Just hear me out.
A commenter, whom I’ll call The Reverend, called me to the mat. Accused me of being jealous. Told me I wanted to BE K-Hizzle, but could not be. Suggested I stop “obsessing” over the blog and better use my time to make some “fairydust memories of [my] own” with my child. I admit, that made me really mad. The implication that I am taking time away from Baby V to “obsess” about something irrelevant and unimportant. I have said recently that I skim the offending blog while I’m at work, during my lunch hour (which is actually only 30 minutes). I can read extremely fast, it’s my job, so I really waste very little time on the website.
I would have been done with the commentary a long time ago, but I got so many emails from readers begging me to continue. That’s very seductive to a writer. I’ve admitted to being jealous of other bloggers’ READERSHIP, and of their affluence compared to mine. The latter is a flaw. I am ready to confess it. My mother was briefly married to a very rich man during my formative tween years, and I got a taste for the finer things in life. Security. Superior health care (there have been serious health issues in my family). Central air. A swimming pool. Veterinary care for my pets. Higher education. Weekly maid service. Oh, that was the life.
My current situation is a result of my own choices and perhaps my karma, so I really have no one to blame. In fact, I’m grateful on a daily basis. I just don’t write about it. Many people out there would envy ME my rented home, my secure employment, my healthy (knock on wood) child. There’s a reason envy is a deadly sin. It leads to very ugly, dark thoughts.
I do not disown my shadow self. I recognize that I cut myself off from empathy as a coping mechanism during a traumatic childhood. I have a rough abrasiveness to me that comes from a life of having to be especially tough from a young age. I can honestly say, though, I don’t want to be anyone other than me. Which is a good thing, because I have no choice.
The Reverend claimed to be a reader here for a while, but I don’t believe that. I have nearly 80 posts here, and like 10 of them are about dooce or Tori or the little stuff. People who read my writing know that I’ve admitted to all of the shit I’m accused of (envy, greed, lust for power, attention whoring) in my blogs, and that I’ve always had a tone of self-deprecation and playful tongue-in-cheekness. So, The Rev’s call to action, “Prove that your blog’s existence doesn’t rely on KH or any other blogger you secretly wish to be. Can you??!!” is moot, as far as I’m concerned.
And I call her/him “The Rev” because s/he had to bring God into it. “Do you believe in God?” “Pray for a change of heart” and “What would he think?” God tells me He doesn’t read my blog. He just doesn’t have the time. But, he loves me, just the same, being how I am made perfectly in his image and all. And then He’s all, “Besides, I know everything you’re thinking as you think it, so what would be the point?” And I’m all, “Good one, Lord.”
Reader, I’m sorry if I offended you when I deleted your comment, or never posted it in the first place. I love nothing better than intellectual debate (and gummy bears), and many of you have really made me think. Having my ideas challenged or being shown a point of view I didn’t consider before enriches me and makes me better. I used to spend my evenings after Baby V went to bed watching television. Now, I write. And I bloom.
Also, I watch television.