The Art of Blowing Your Nose In Public

I have been sick these last few weeks. Nothing serious. Just the kind of sick that makes people put their bag on the empty seat next to them when they see me boarding the bus. The kind of sick that makes people at work kind of hate me for being there. The kind of sick that makes my nose red no matter how many times I pat concealer around my nostrils. (I have found that in general people don't like to acknowledge nostrils.)

Of course there are a thousand more interesting things I could write about. How well Zoey did on her report card, skateboarding, 4th grade girl drama, how Ozzy is obsessed with John Cena, his hair, my boobs. (Not just my boobs on their own but how Ozzy is obsessed with them.) I swear these things are interesting, at least more so than my nose.

A few weeks ago I shared something on Instagram that said Fuck work...Ima still go though. It was Monday morning, funny, it spoke to me. But it also spoke to the handful of Zoey's friends that now follow me on Instagram. I didn't even think about that until one of them commented with the wide-eyed blushing emoji. I immediately thought of that emoji that is supposedly chocolate ice cream but no one uses it for that. I scream, you scream, we all scream for! Shit. Not that the word fuck is going to kill Zoey's friends, but it's certainly not something I would have said to their faces.

Zoey asked me once if my blog is about her. Yes, I said. Kind of? Not really. I don't know. It used to be all about her. I guess I was a mommy blogger way back when, but slowly worlds began to collide and I've gradually realized that as my kids get older and more their own people, they are less mine to write about publicly. I mean, when Zoey was 2 I logically knew that she could read this one day, but now that she is 9 and follows me on Instagram I can see that the mythical one day is not that far off. I only hope that when she and Ozzy do read my blog, they will see how intensely I love them, love being their mom, but I also hope they get to know me as not just their mom, but as my own person, just like they are. Their own people whose privacy I have to respect.

JFK with his daughter Caroline wearing a JFK mask.

It's not as if I will never write about them again, but it's different now, or maybe this is how it should have been all along. Because of course I hate blowing my nose in public. Doesn't everyone? The trick is in owning it. Tucking your head down discreetly, yes, but using force, one, two, three, however many times it takes, and then efficiently, quickly, authoritatively using the tissue to make sure there are no boogers smeared across your upper lip. And then yes, writing about it on your blog if and when you want to.

Parent first, writer second.
I think I am almost not sick anymore.
xo,
S

The Artist Formerly Known As Petunia Face

Dig if you will a picture...

Except I am pretty sure you and I should not engage in a kiss as I have been deathly ill with the flu or maybe just a bad cold, bronchitis, quite possibly walking pneumonia. Something tells me this is not the time to flinch from drama. Prince is playing tomorrow night nearby and I am still too sick (and didn't get tickets) to go. Meanwhile, Bryan is going to see the Dead Kennedys tomorrow night as if it is 1985 and he is not grounded with a sick wife and kids at home.

Whatevs.
When doves cry,
S