Sometimes I love this space. Hard.
I love that I can connect with other mothers who I’d probably never cross paths with, stories I would never share, women I would never, otherwise know.
I love that I can share stories about my kids, post pictures for family and friends. Pictures and moments that I can look back on that make me smile months and years later.
I love that I can make you laugh, make you hold back tears, make you sigh because you can relate to a moment I describe.
I love that it gives me a place to talk about just how damn much l love those kids and being a mom.
I love that I can also whine about how those damn kids are making me crazy and how there are parts of motherhood that are kicking me right in the ass.
But sometimes I worry about this space and what it says about me. That the glimpse I give you into one, albeit the largest, piece of my life might make someone think that that’s all there is.
I try not to talk about work much. Mostly because I rather like having a paycheck. But also because it’s not appropriate or even that interesting.
But once in a while, usually when things are “happening” in my professional life, I worry about a current or future boss or coworker would feel if (when) they come across this blog.
Will my rants about potty training and babies who don’t want to nap look like excessive whining? (It’s not.)
Will my love letters to my kids make me look like I’ve lost my ambition for growth in the corporate world and make them wonder if I’m pining to be a stay at home mom? (I’m not.)
Does being able to write a funny post about moments I fail at parenting translate to a person who can also develop strategy, plan logistics and write speeches for big wigs? (I can.)
Does a click through to my Twitter feed send up a red flag that I spend entirely too much time on social media? (Um….maybe.)
Thinking about those things makes me feel like I’m thinking too much about who is reading and less about the person writing. And it also tends to make me a little quiet.
I’m trying to find a way to bring a little bit of that piece of me here. Because it’s important. Because it’s part of who I am. I just haven’t completely figured that out yet.
Am I crazy? Am I the only working mom who feels this way?