Well, the time has come in my blogging life where my kids have grown old enough to know that I’m talking about them, and to hate it. It’s a dilemma bloggers eventually face: To Blog or Not To Blog. To share deep, personal stories that may also serve as ammunition when the kids are older and dating, or respect their privacy and talk only about your own life? This would mean I couldn't write any more dialogues or conversations, and I would talk mostly about narration prep and intestinal discomfort.
Fuck that! I carried those puppies for nine months each, threw up three to four times every day with them, had gestational diabetes with both and that means I couldn’t have a sandwich (or keep it down) for EIGHTEEN MONTHS. I have earned embarrassing them. I’ve earned it!!!
I am a compassionate, caring mother. So I am now and forevermore renaming my children on this blog, so that when they say “Ma? Are you writing about me? I can truthfully say “Nope. I’m writing about some kids named Moxie and Franz”.
Moxie. And FRANZ.
These are my blog-children.
You will hear more from them soon. In my blog-world, my son Franz wears lederhosen and is pissed off about it, and Moxie wears a 1920s flapper-style dress and a cute hat. She’s sewn sparkles all over it. Franz is 8; Moxie is 6.
And while we’re in fantasy-blog land, please imagine me as 29, a size 8 again, with long auburn hair.
Scratch that. Imagine me in lederhosen too, only I look like this:
Kealoha you can imagine as he usually is: Hawaiian shirt, jeans, mai tai in hand, because really. You can’t improve on perfection.
I have a Christmas scene with Moxie, Franz, Me, Kealoha and Nana coming soon.