We pretended we were snowed in today, because being snowed in on a Sunday is fun, as we learned last Sunday, when we were really snowed in. Today there was a pesky one inch of snow on the driveway, so . . . . Watercolors! Waffles! "Helping" Daddy shovel! Reading the New York Times and seeing this, which featured some of my favorite Mommy blogs.
OK, so two of the bloggers' names were misspelled . . . and all right, the writer criticizes blogging as a product of self-absorbed, anxiety-ridden parents. Bloggers get the last word, ha, ha, such as here and here. The writer, David Hochman, is oblivious to the high spirits, ascerbic wit, vulnerability and honesty of the particular bloggers he mentions. If the mainstream media loves to criticize mothers, and and if they feel threatened by blogging, then I guess it'll be a while before they cover blogging mothers with any depth.
On to more important things, like me and and my anxiety and self-absorption. The boys and I did some watercolor painting this morning. Will's paintings feature much black, puddles of water, and idiosyncratic brush strokes (applied with much pressure, creating multidirectional bristles). Jack's paintings actually include distinct fields of color. I bought extra brushes the other day so I could paint while they do. With the same paint. The palette is limited. And the yellow is adulterated with dark colors beyond any reasonable hope.
Our snow day good will is about to start to unravel; whenever the boys begin laughing a certain kind of laugh, and putting baskets over their heads, and throwing things, then someone is going to start crying or yelling very, very soon. Listen. Can you hear me?
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1 comment:
Love you comment about the media picking on mothers. So true. Don't mothers have it hard enough already? Mostly I was bothered by the article's assertion that parent-bloggers are crashing towards a self-fulfilling letdown: "And of course the more parents blog, the less likely they are to get the attention and validation they seem to crave." For me, flexing my fingers into flowing sentences, and seeing the fruits of my non-paying labor up there in all its pink-bordered, monitor-glowing glory is reward enough.
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