Between working full time, being a wife and a mother, taking care of my house and my family, and blogging - I'm pretty much tapped out. If only there were 36 hours in a day...
|Heather Armstrong of Dooce.com
She started her blog in 2001 before every Tom, Dick and Amanda had one. She was raised in a strict Mormon household, but in college, she decided to refute her religion, do all the things that she couldn't do before, and then write about them. She even became a Democrat. It was quite controversial.
She gained national attention when she was fired from her job for blogging about napping during a work-from-home day. And it's forever documented in the Urban Dictionary.
Her blog has become somewhat of an empire - financially supporting her, her husband and an assistant from advertising revenue alone. She's been on Oprah, Dr. Phil and quoted in the New York Times. She has over one million followers on Twitter. (Take that, Ashton Kutcher). She's the real deal.
Don't worry - you didn't accidentally end up on the Biography Channel. I just wanted to set the stage for this post that she wrote about separating from her husband. If you have ever been through a heartbreak, separation or divorce - especially if there were children involved - then you might relate to her words.
Reading this post made me think about blogging in general. Maybe every detail of your life shouldn't be displayed on the worldwide web for all to see. Maybe some experiences should be private and sacred. Maybe some thoughts should remain protected.
I envied Heather Armstrong. How great would it be to make a living as a professional blogger?! You get to hang out in your pajamas all day, write about your kids and post pictures of your dog. Huh? Who's on the phone? Dr. Phil? Okay... I'll be right there!
But if you have to exchange that career for the happiness of your family? Well, there's no amount of money that's worth that trade. Not even if Dr. Phil called to tell you about it.
So instead of getting more personal, I think I'll keep writing stories about scaring ten-year-old boys and busting kids on Christmas morning. Oh, and poop. Lots of poop.