When Dave arrived this morning, I missed him at first because I was looking for a coffee-fueled Australian sexy photographer from Colorado and minister who visits fertility clinics like they’re bars, just had a birthday, loves shoes, loves shoes, loves shoes, and is running for president. Clearly, I get my bloggers — even the ones I like the most — confused with one another.
Parent blogging is like growing up, even down to the stages of maturity:
- Infancy. At this age, the mommy or daddyblogger is writing for a few family members, a couple of friends, and the family parakeet. (The parakeet just pretends to read it while he’s browsing for plucked chicken porn.)
- Toddlerhood. After a few months or a year, we start “meeting” other bloggers on line through comments and e-mail. Friendships at this stage are quick and intense and frequently based on blogroll exchanges. Anonymous bloggers may even expose their names — privately.
- First Grade. Inevitably, the day arrives when you meet someone offline that you’d only ever known online. (Going to BlogHer doesn’t count. Anyone can do that. I’m talking about seriously, intentional, let’s-meet-and-share-pretzels-and-orange-slices playdates.)
That’s as far as I’ve gotten personally, although I suspect that in the next phase the world showers me with accolades and ad revenue so we never have to work again. (Isn’t that how it works?) It may take a while to get there, but I’m pretty satisfied being in First Blogger Grade. I’ve met a lot of really cool people, and even made some “Do you want to come to my Bar Mitzvah?” friends through writing.
What’s hard, though, putting a blog with a face. Boobaby and I spent the morning with Dave and Ronen from Rattling the Kettle, up visiting San Francisco for the weekend. At some point on our way out to Fisherman’s Wharf I asked him how long he’d been a stay-at-home dad. Well, as it turns out, he’s not — I’d mushed up his story in my head with a hundred others that I’m keeping close or far tabs on: my blogroll.
“Was that you who blogged about your dachshund winning the dachshund derby and getting a special dachshund medal at the dachshund festival?” I might ask a blogging acquaintance.
“No, and in fact a dachshund ate my baby duck when I was a child and I’ve never gotten over it,” comes the reply. “And thank you for reminding me of that painful memory.”
So to Dave and all the my other friends whose stories are getting a little mixed up in my head, I apologize. (On the other hand, if you ever need to embellish your life history, just ask me what I remember about your trip to Vegas last year — you’ll be amazed at what you did!)