I am not heavy into blogging culture, although I have certainly learned a lot about it in the past year. I post when I can, and sometimes there are lengthy periods of silence because either work and/or life in general have left me little time, or because I am not feeling particularly inspired. Still, I enjoy doing this and aspire to post more regularly. I marvel in slack-jawed amazement at those parenting bloggers who can write not only frequently, but who are also able to consistently have something funny or interesting to say (see e.g., Make It a Double, who is not only posting lengthy, well-written, often hilarious pieces frequently on his blog, but is writing (almost) daily pieces for StrollerDerby as well). I often wonder how they do it.
Even as infrequently as I post, it is interesting to me how it becomes a part of your life. When the kids do something particularly bizarre or cute, Deanna and/or I will look at the other and say “blog it.” Although I frequently do not, it shows how it becomes part of your mindset.
A few weeks ago, however, I found the line between blogging and reality being blurred, and fear I may have crossed the line. It was a Friday night, and Owen and I had just returned from buying a Christmas tree with my father-in-law.
As an aside, the tree, which passed my rigorous series of “freshness tests” on the lot (ramming it into the ground, smelling, running hand over needles, examining the “decorate by” date stamped on the trunk), would mysteriously drop about ½ of its needles by the next morning. Three weeks later, and the tree is now so dry that I wouldn’t be surprised if it spontaneously combusted prior to the New Year. But I digress.
Even as infrequently as I post, it is interesting to me how it becomes a part of your life. When the kids do something particularly bizarre or cute, Deanna and/or I will look at the other and say “blog it.” Although I frequently do not, it shows how it becomes part of your mindset.
A few weeks ago, however, I found the line between blogging and reality being blurred, and fear I may have crossed the line. It was a Friday night, and Owen and I had just returned from buying a Christmas tree with my father-in-law.
As an aside, the tree, which passed my rigorous series of “freshness tests” on the lot (ramming it into the ground, smelling, running hand over needles, examining the “decorate by” date stamped on the trunk), would mysteriously drop about ½ of its needles by the next morning. Three weeks later, and the tree is now so dry that I wouldn’t be surprised if it spontaneously combusted prior to the New Year. But I digress.
Having just returned from picking out our gem of a tree, we were sitting around with my in-laws, chit-chatting before putting the kids to bed, when Hayden made a bizarre noise. My father-in-law looked at him and said “Are you all right, buddy”, to which Hayden responded by puking a shower of corn, raisins, and other partially digested food onto a shag throw rug in the living room. Minutes later, we were in the kitchen, where Deanna was holding him against her after finishing holding him over the sink, when he made the same noise and, before anyone could move, deposited a thick chunky layer of yellow-orange puke all over her shoulder and chest. It was at this moment that I found myself reaching for … not a towel, but the camera. That’s right, with my son’s body wracked and heaving, and my wife covered in nastiness, I thought to myself “this would make a great picture for the blog!” Although Deanna’s shout of “What the Hell are you doing!?!” was enough to dissuade me from actually taking the photo, by that time I had actually picked up the camera (which lay tantalizingly close by), turned it on, and stood there considering whether to take the next step of asking my puke-covered wife to turn a little bit so that I could get a better angle. To be honest, I was already looking at an extended period in the doghouse by that point, so I should have just snapped away. Even three weeks later, feet firmly planted back on the reality side of the line, I contend that a picture like that capturing the less-cheery side of parenting would be a hell of a lot more fun to look at 25 years from now than yet another picture of smiling kids. Still, it was probably good to be reminded (then, and frequently since) that I am a father and husband first, and a photojournalist something like 27th, so although I will continue to chronicle the less-savory aspects of parenting from time to time, you may simply have to use your imaginations to picture the nasty details.
