I can’t believe I fell for it. Browsing through my most recent Parent’s magazine (cause I’m cool like that), a blurb on the front cover cried out to me: “See your kid on our cover. Quick! Visit parents.com.”
“Who? Me?” I ask as I glance behind me. “You’d like to put my adorable, sweet little Anna on your cover? Ok!” And I ran to the computer and uploaded her little mug just as soon as my fingers would let me. It wasn’t until after I hit “submit” that I felt a pang of guilt.
I had become one of those parents. The one who thinks their kid is the cutest-wutest ‘lil munchkin ever. But doesn’t every parent feel that way? At least until the first time you discover the masterpiece of a finger painting they …
I wouldn’t really know. Haven’t “dated” since I was 18, and even then, it was “love” at first sight (or close enough) with my hubby when we met at Sheplers. I worked in Women’s, he worked in Boots, and the intoxicating smell of leather and steamed felt hats created a ripe environment for two young Wrangler-wearing kids to fall for each other.
But here I am, sitting down on my second date with Blank Page. I was pleasantly surprised how I felt this morning after our tryst last night. I didn’t feel dirty, used, or taken advantage of. Turns out, we kind of like each other.
Nevertheless, it’s still intimidating and a little awkward. My husband hovers behind me, and I feel the need to minimize the screen. “Don’t watch me,” I chide him. He shrugs …
Blame it on the cherry-pomegranate juice, or the brilliant Kansas sun reflecting off of the stainless-steel Chipotle patio table, but somehow my friend Mia convinced me that I need to give this writing thing a go–for real this time.
I’m not really sure what happened to me. Somewhere amidst my hectic life, I lost my courage to write. Not my passion, but my courage. Give me a topic to write about, give me a word count and my audience and I’m golden. Give me a blank page, with no restrictions, no particular audience and my fingers do the “clickity-clack backspace waltz,” where my best move is stammering out a few contrived sentences before frantically deleting it all.
What if no one likes it? What if I reveal my true self and I don’t even like it? Not …