I’ve been asked by Huffington Post to blog for them.
I’m going national, baby. Well… no. I’m going international. 3 million unique visitors and 60 million page views a month.
Got my head shot done today. I hate having my picture taken. Too old. Too fat. Too old. Too fat. Too old and fat.
Where the hell did all this blonde hair come from?
The boys went through the seven I thought I could bear to have posted.
Oh, you look evil in that one, Mom, Zachary said.
Mom, you can’t be smirking- that one you look like you are smirking, Ben points.
I kinda like that one…
They’re all just weird, Zachary said and walked away.
That one, Ben picked. The rest… no.
Working on the bio.
Sara Whitman plays well with others and is well known for her fried egg sandwiches. She is often seen running back and forth to the school to pick up her children. Recently, she finished ten loads of laundry and actually got more than half of it put away.
I hate writing my bio. I’d rather go to the dentist.
I can’t believe I have this opportunity. I’m grateful and nervous. Until now, most of the pot shots I’ve taken are from people I know and most of the praise has come from complete strangers.
When I started this blog last August, my mother was dying. My marriage was on incredibly rocky ground. I knew I was going to leave the job I loved because after working every day of my vacation I understood it wasn’t okay anymore. In the middle of the crisis, I could do it. Sure. But, crisis over. Enough already.
I woke up and realized I needed to take care of my family first. I needed to get grounded if I was going to be a good mother, good wife and a good friend.
I was a great assistant. It was a total and complete waste of time. I hid behind someone else’s needs.
It was a familiar place.
Since last August, I’ve put my heart and soul on the page, every day. I’ve risked everything. I’ve peeled back layers and layers of shame. I’ve been criticized and asked to stop. I’ve been encouraged and implored to write more.
I’m doing what I love.
I’m eager to let the world know about what it is to be a lesbian mom in the suburbs. To be laugh about the places we share as parents, as women, as adults, and as survivors. To acknowledge the places we are different. If I can make a couple connections with people who may be voting on my rights at some point in their life and they can say, wait, I remember this lesbian mom… then I’ve done more than I have ever dreamed of doing.
Bottom line? It’s all about the kids. Creating a world where their lives are celebrated and recognized.
When Jake came home later, I asked him about the pictures.
He picked the smirking one.
Because you look like a pirate.
That’s my boy.
(I’m not sure when my first post will be- stay tuned.)
(and I agree with Jake.)