Verdict: "Blogs Are Bad"

My bad haircut and I spent Thanksgiving at Mom's house. Since the family really only consists of the two of us, it's very easy to plan for holidays. (Christmas is the exception; we see people from my dad's side, at Christmas, which is one of my favorite things.) And since I still have no kitchen to speak of, it's pretty much a foregone conclusion as to who's doing the cooking.

My mom is a wonderful cook. She taught me everything I know, and while in some ways I prefer my own interpretations of some of her recipes, there's nothing like a meal your mother cooks for you. So even if the gravy came from a packet and if maybe I would have done something different with the stuffing, I don't care because it's my mother's cooking and as such, it is above all critiques.

So as we sat down to our turkey breast and mashed potatoes and gravy and stuffing and green beans and cranberry and sweet potatoes, we said the blessing and dug in. And I do mean "dug in"; I'd foregone breakfast and lunch with the anticipation of this feast.

We were watching the news as we ate. I know, I know; television during Thanksgiving dinner?? But yeah--somehow the tv is always on when we eat, Thanksgiving or otherwise. And I don't remember what, exactly, the topic was when I mentioned "something I read on the internet."

"What, in the newspaper?" my mother asked.

"No," I said. "On someone's website." In response to her quizzical look, I said "There are a lot of people who have websites where they write their opinions and their thoughts, about any topic that interests them...kinda like a journal."

"Oh, are these those 'blog' things I heard about?" she asked.

"Yeah!" I replied, a little surprised to hear an Internet term coming from my mom. "And anyway, I was reading one of the ones I read all the time, and..." I finished my point, whatever it was (the tryptophan has wiped my memory clean) and went back to eating.

But a few bites later my curiosity got the better of me. "So where did you hear about blogs, anyway?" I asked.

"There was an article about them in the Tribune," she said.

"What did it say?"

"That they're bad! That people spill their guts on the Internet and anyone can read it..." She paused. "You don't have anything like that, do you?" she asked.

My mother is largely responsible for my lifelong success at IQ tests. And I don't mean in the usual ways--genetics, or reading to me from a young age, or watching my development closely. No, there was something else: My mother, almost from the time I was old enough to recognize and answer a question, taught me to recognize the "correct" answer to any question. Just through her phrasing, her intonation, her choice of words; almost every question came with its own built-in correct answer, obligingly telegraphed to me.

And this one was no exception. It was very clear that the correct answer to the question was "No, I do not have one of those shameful, exhibitionistic 'blogs' and I would never think of disclosing the sordid details of my life to total strangers, all of whom want nothing more than to tell all your siblings about everything you've asked me to keep hidden from them for fifteen years."

"No," I said, and took another forkful of potatoes. "Though I think you've got the wrong idea about them...most of the people I read, for example, don't use their real names, and..." I continued my defense of blogging, but it was clear she'd already made up her mind based on the article she'd read. (Which, incidentally, I had also read; and if anyone can find "blogs are bad", even in this heavy-handed piece of alarmism, please let me know, because I don't see it.)

And yes, I know; I lied to my mother, and on Thanksgiving too, and aren't I ashamed of myself? Except...no, I'm sorta not. Because as much as I love my mother--and I do--but no matter how many times I've tried to admit her into my adult life, she has never earned that kind of trust from me. We are two very different people, and unfortunately she has never stopped seeing me as needing her guidance. I would be more accepting if she only tried to steer me in the right direction when I was making a mistake--but she's constantly steering, even when I'm not making a mistake.

We finished our dinner, and she packed up the leftovers for me while I brought the Christmas tree up out of the basement and put it together for her, and we had hot tea and apple pie with ice cream, and talked about other things.

My mom is in her late 70's now, and as she said, "Every holiday I think, 'this could be the last one'." And she's right, though I don't like to think about that. One of these Thanksgivings WILL be the last; the day will come, and sooner rather than later, when I'll have no family left. And when that day comes, I know I'll have a lot of regrets. In some ways I already do, but they're not really regrets about things I've done or things I haven't done.

Really, my main regret is this: through no fault of either one of us, my mother and I don't know anything real about each other; and when she dies--even though she gave birth to me and raised me and I talk to her every single day--on some fundamental level we will still be strangers. I accept my share of the responsibility for that, and I would love for there to be some magic happy-Hollywood ending--you know, the kind where she accepts me for who I am, and I recognize that the wisdom of her life actually DOES apply to my life as well. But I'm realistic enough to see that there's only so much I can do on my own, and that no matter how much I can change myself, she's part of this equation too, and I can't change her, nor is it my place to even want to. She's my mother, after all.

So all I can do, I guess, is to call her every day and talk about my day at work; to listen to what she did that day, who she saw at church and what they said; and to keep to myself the "scary" pieces of my life to myself, as much as possible--even if that means the only place I have to talk about them is my blog (which, according to the Tribune, is a bad thing.)