7 years ago, when I started this blog, it was part of my attempt to press the reset button and start my life anew. I was 26. There were a lot of things I wanted to forget or not face up to, but more importantly, there were so many things I wanted to do. I wanted to live my dream life and wanted to be happy, and no one but myself was going to make this happen.
That was also when I met SR and left my husband (who SR will always refer to as "Saint Paul"). Suddenly the version of reality that mattered was the version SR and I created.
For us, writing our blogs, was akin to creating the story of our lives. I am not saying we lied or made things up, but the stories we told are what we remember as the truth. Anyone who has been a writer knows the magic of the written word: you can change the world and make yourself believe in an entirely different reality than people around you.
Over the years, my blog as the grand tableau of my life, has been challenged again and again. It started with people figuring out my identity. When people could look up my race results, my job, details about my past, not even minor alterations in the truth were allowed. At times, it seemed, despite me thinking or writing otherwise, I was nothing more or less than I was - to the readers. And there have been a lot of instances where readers have hated me.
I started writing about the safety of running during pregnancy. Just because I was a doctor didn't mean I could write statements about health and safety without references. My blog became more challenging to maintain, but I learned a lot about what it means to be a scientist - and the importance of accountability.
As I began to race more, my version of what happened during my workouts became so insignificant compared to the clocks at races. I could cut a workout on the track short and claim to have run faster, but if the goal is to get faster, accountability and accurate assessments of my abilities helped me improve and race smarter.
Yesterday, I was at Target with the two boys. I walked down the shoe aisle and took my eyes off Mattias, who was sitting in the large compartment of the cart (the kids' carts were all taken). I eyed some size 12 shoes for Christian and out of the corner of my right eye, I saw my 2 year old teetering on the brink of the top of the cart and then launching off, jumping as high as he could, temporarily growing small angel wings before he landed a perfect 10 landing on flat feet on the cream speckled Target floor - lifting his arms proudly over his head for the clapping crowd. Amazing. Every bone in my body was proud of my wild specimen.
Yet, everyone else there surely saw something else: a boy desperate not to be left alone or ignored by his mom, hopping dangerously out of the cart and almost breaking his ankle. Had my mom been there, she would have blown a gasket.
In truth, no one saw him but me. And I may have made up the part about the wings.
I like to think that my eating has gotten a lot healthier. I am not too thin. I eat a variety of foods. But if my step daughter sees my eating as restrictive and wants to be thin, she may very well become anorexic in attempt to emulate me. And suddenly, as a mom and step-mom, my version of reality is a lot less important than that of my kids.
Yesterday, as we lined up to start the Color Dash 5k, everyone was smiling, but there was a big wait to start even after the race had begun. I looked down at Christian with love, so proud he was going to run, but he looked up at me with fear. He said, carefully, in Danish "Mom, please don't start screaming because we have to wait to start". My heart broke and my smile got strange. In my version of reality, I only scream or cry if I am really upset or desperate. In his version, I am unpredictable. And suddenly, the only version of reality that mattered was his.
I could go on using this blog to tell my story, but it changes nothing of importance when my story is not the one that matters. Maybe that is why I rarely make time to blog. In fact, is this why mothers so seldom write?
Steve Q pointed out to me today that no one under 30 has a blog anymore. This made me sad because using writing to understand our feelings and to help others understand their own is undervalued in the Facebook era.
And I thought again about our trip to Target yesterday, Christian and Mattias sitting in the red cart, repeating in unison the word "tissemand" (Danish for "penis") and laughing. They were like two little crickets singing their joyful tissemand duet and no one could understand them - and this is what seemed to make them happiest - except their mother, who couldn't stop laughing. Every fiber in my body loved those two boys, and I smiled knowing, for at least that moment, my version of reality really was the one that mattered.
Running song of the Day:
Horseshoe by Withered Hand
We can kid our friends. Tell me was it easy to pretend? Like nobody is dead. Nobody in love will ever die again.