When I first started blogging people weren’t really blogging. There were a few of us (Jennifer was my first virtual friend blogging and she was way before me and Aimee was an early blogroll edition thanks to Becca). But there wasn’t this huge community and there weren’t “blog mavens” or consultants or advertising co-ops. Blogging was something you could do and reasonably expect that most people in the world would have no idea how to find you or your blog.

You need to understand that this was before google was a verb.

So when I started blogging with my full name and my kid’s name (only one kid then), it was a little edgy but it was so far out of the mainstream that it just didn’t matter. Like sometimes people would bring it up at picnics or at parties and people would say, “A blog? What’s a blog? You write a journal online?”

Blogging got me some of my very first writing jobs because I was fortunate enough to be building an online presence when people were building online media outlets. I met other early adopters and some of them had editorial control at these new fangled “Online Magazines” and they read my blog and offered me gigs so there was a clear impetus to keep blogging as me, Dawn Friedman, writer. (I can think of several people who — like myself — owe their editorial careers to the internet because we had some lucky foresight and got there when things were still young and so you could create a site and sell it to AOL who would then sell it to Oprah’s new production company and those of us who rode the wave suddenly had very useful clips whereas before we were just hopeful that an online byline might mean something — anything — to an actual print magazine editor.)

Then the internet grew and became essential for many if not most of us; not just bloggers any longer either but people who appreciated the ease of use of other social media (even my inlaws are on Facebook now, for crying out loud). The publicness of life online became less insulated and more OUT THERE, invading our real world in ways that I did not anticipate when I started my lowly, hand-coded in HTML blog on kjsl.com. (A free website that I got for being on one of the attachment parenting litservs where I first met Jennifer and Katie and several other early adapters who are part of my social media circle although I left that email list probably a decade ago.)

Again, as a writer this worked. In fact, it was absolutely necessary. If you head to any writer’s conference, open any writer’s magazine or show up at any writer’s group people have long been talking about the necessity of being online. My blog still gets me jobs directly (through assignments from editors who read me) and indirectly (through readers who pass my name on to people I know). It is part of the tired buzzword “platform”, which basically is defined as a writer’s ability to alert potential readers to her work.

There is the crux of my dilemma — I don’t want to stop writing because I will always be a writer so I can’t just close up shop and quit having a presence. How then do I shift that presence to allow me the freedom to do other things (namely be a counselor) off-line? How do I prepare to maintain the appropriate boundaries for transference when I have been virtually an open book? And how do I do this while still nurturing my writing career?

I’m headed to a clearer path about this though since I’ve been thinking on it since I sent in my application for my GRE (but didn’t dare think about it for real ’til I got the acceptance to a program).

This is what I know for sure: I liked the challenge of writing that disruption article, (which should be on news stands any minute) and it cemented my yearning to do more nonfiction that isn’t directly related to my life. I have loved writing essays and I will continue writing personal essays but the truth of it is that my focus on that has been due to the reality of my life, which has been very small and inner-focused because I haven’t had the space or time to go out and do any reporting. I mean, there’s a reason why every couple of years you get a slew of new memoirs about new motherhood. When I went to the Nieman Conference (for writers of nonfiction) a few years back, I left feeling both excited and discouraged. Excited because I knew I wanted to stretch myself as a writer and discouraged because I knew it would be a few years before I could do it. But my kids are bigger now and one reason I want to be in school and want to have a career that is not writing-focused is that I want a base that lets me research things that are of interest to me but are not OF me.

When I imagine blogging with these goals I’m still in the process of shaping I think it will be an awful lot like this entry, which is to say it’ll be personal but not the same kind of personal (less vulnerable) and it’ll also (I hope) be more about the things that I’m learning (like Harlow’s Monkey only I can only dream of attaining her awesomeness). And I do want to blog about the reality of grad school when you’re forty-ish and have kids and maybe even are fool enough to keep homeschooling them like we hope to do.

Now the hard part is taking the plunge to start dismantling my archives because dismantling them means making a definitive shift from marketing myself as a writer who will write just about any darn thing and is practically focused on quantity although she yearns to be focused on quality and marketing myself as a more select kind of writer. Which is why I decided to find another way to support myself but which scares me since I’ve been marketing like crazy now for several years and old habits die hard.

See, one reason my blog ends up at the top of searches is that it is HUGE and it is deeply entangled on the world wide web. To dismantle it means to take down these connections, which hurts my “platform.” (And my platform was already hurting because the rise of blogging and then the fall of blogging due to the rise of social networking means my blog has taken a double hit lately.) The reason I’m at the top of this list? Because my archives are large and well indexed (i.e., linked up on search engines).

It is a largely symbolic issue though. I need to get over it and not care if I drop off those lists entirely. Again, old habits die hard, people and my habits are pretty old now.

I’m over at the Huffington Post today:

Over lunch the other day, I asked my 5-year old daughter what I should write in this essay.

“I’m going to write about your adoption,” I told her. “What do you want people to know?”

“I want them to know that adoption is hard,” she answered right away. “I want them to know it’s hard being away from your real, real mommy.”

via Rebecca Walker: This Is My Daughter’s Mother: Dawn Friedman’s Happy Family.

Back to this post.

I just keep thinking about this as a writer and as a (small-time) activist. I want to understand the universal in my specifics and I want to understand when I’m mistakenly extending my experience to other people.

I was thinking on this after I read momartfully’s excellent single mom post:

Single Moms — Web Outcasts

And I think of it now and then specifically around an essay that was in (I think) the Guardian, which I can’t find anymore and it points out that all the books about motherhood are written by writers, which means that writing mothers dominate the cultural discussion about motherhood, kinda the way the blog world thinks every mommy blogger is writing blithely at home between loads of sparkling laundry. (Watch Punditmom — only partially successfully — try to make this point to the Wall Street Journal.)

I think about how often people have said to me, “YOUR open adoption works that way but you can’t assume ours does.”

I think about that a lot.

I don’t really have a point except that I’m thinking about it and thinking, like I said, about how to express the universal from my specific and I think the only way to do that is to KNOW what’s specific, which isn’t always easy.

I’m filing this under writing because that’s how I’m thinking about it.

My childcare has food poisoning so first I want to acknowledge that her Friday is even more suckier than mine before I whine that I’m scrambling to reschedule meetings. I’m just grouchy because I am discombobulated. I’ll recover. And Noah is being considerate and making everyone breakfast so I could get to my work inbox and stuff.

(sigh)

I just emailed Becca this (because she’s my editor/writer friend who talks to me about editor/writer stuff when I’m working on essays) but in my essay about calling myself fat it is only about ME. It’s about me not wanting to be called fat and the times I have been called fat and how I feel like I need to get over it for the sake of my daughter who — being female — will eventually be called fat and for my son who — having female friends and perhaps someday partners — will eventually be dealing with women who say, “Do I look fat in this?” So it’s a very small focus, the essay. It’s not about calling other people fat or about the media or manners or fat-phobia in general — it’s about ME and calling myself fat and obviously this is a good thing essay organization-wise since talking about the rest of that just gets off-track.

Becca asked if I felt defensive and I’ll tell you all, YES. ABSOLUTELY. And I suppose I feel defensive about this because it’s not easy at all to talk about, (which goes back to my need to pretend that we don’t all know that I am fat) and so discussion is just harder for me around it. Yet another reason to work on the essay.

Here is one piece I’m putting in the essay though. I was thinking about it while I was working out because I’ve never blogged it since it was and is very painful for me.

So — one of the hard things about my infertility struggles was that I now had proof that my body was a worthless piece of shit. If you read fat-positive stuff, sometimes it will focus on how fat women are so fruitful and lush and womanly and also — the adjectives imply — fertile. You know, they’ll go “womanly hips to cradle a new life” and “lush breasts to nurture another being.” But me — I was just fat and barren. I loathed my fat, barren body. My infertility was unexplained but I had myself convinced it had to do with my weight and I convinced myself of this because all the infertility books say if you are too fat or too skinny you can sometimes f*ck up your fertility. Plus there are always miracle conception stories from women who lose a bunch of weight and — boom! — get pregnant. My RE was neutral on it. Maybe losing weight would help, maybe not but he was pushing for Clomid.

I decided the whole infertility journey had to have some meaning and I decided I would get stronger and healthier and lose some weight and see if it helped me get my cycles in order. But I was really scared about it because I didn’t want to become diet obsessed (I had never dieted before although I have lost weight in the past by exercising more) and I didn’t want to sink deeper into self-loathing, which I knew would be easy to do since inevitably I would eat something “bad” or skip a work-out.

I took it all very slowly and deliberately. I made small, heatlhy changes. I started keeping track — not obsessively — with portion sizes. I asked Brett to quit buying ice cream. I also started running instead of just doing step aerobics. And slowly but surely, I started losing weight. I felt really good about it. I felt confident about my ability to keep the weight off because it was coming off slowly and I felt like I was making changes I’d be able to live with forever. After every run (and it took me a long time to get to where I could run for twenty minutes without stopping to walk) I would stop and breathe and stretch and pray.

I started to feel better and more forgiving about myself. And as it happens? My cycles shortened from 35 days to 29 days, which boded well and sure enough — after losing about 25 pounds — I got pregnant.

And then I miscarried.

I was at my brother-in-law’s wedding when I began to lose that pregnancy so I didn’t get back to the RE until I was well and truly bleeding. I was still holding out impossible hope though because you do that when you’re insane to be pregnant. And this is how my doctor greeted me (this part is in my archives): “Congratulations! You’re pregnant!” and then when I gasped at the miracle he smoothly added, “But it won’t last.”

This is the part that’s harder to write.

I was crying in his office, sobbing so hard I couldn’t see and he started pressuring me to consider the Clomid, which I really did NOT want to do. And I said (through tears), “I’ve been working really hard to lose weight and I’ve lost twenty-five pounds so far and isn’t it possible that if I keep on this course that it’ll help regulate my luteal phase defect?” And he said, “How much do you weigh now?” And I told him (although I don’t feel ready to tell you yet) and he said flipping to a BMI chart, “How tall are you? Well, then that’s obese! You’re obese!”

Then he harangued me about wasting time (I was 31) trying to lose weight when he could get me pregnant RIGHT NOW if I would only follow his directive. And I don’t really remember how I got out of there but all I could hear was “obese” and suddenly it didn’t seem like such an accomplishment that I’d gotten to a size 12 again.

I haven’t run since. Because the next time I tried to run I started crying so hard that I couldn’t breathe and I had to stop and I felt like a big, stupid worthless thing trying to stagger around a track. I felt so stupid. I felt so humiliated. I felt like he could see me in all my fat glory on the track and I sure couldn’t run past the playground full of skinny moms with their many children so I went home to hide my shameful self and the next month I started the Clomid.

Contrary to legend — I did not drown my sorrows in cheesecake or curl up with a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and a chick flick like a Cathy comic strip. I just stopped running and eventually the weight came back on.

(I have tried running since but can’t get past the shin splints.)

So when I allow my children to acknowledge my fatness and when I acknowledge my own fatness, I am doing this in part because I need to teach myself, too, what I want to teach my kids: That I can be fat and accomplishd and lovable and attractive and worthy. I don’t really believe it yet. I mean, I sorta do but in a very compartmentalized way. It is hard to own my good points when I am owning my less socially acceptable points. I can acknowledge that I’ve reached some of my writing goals but very often hot on the heels is, “Yes, but I’m fat.” As if it negates everything — anything –  I’ve done.

I feel best about my body when I’ve got an exercise routine but only if I unhook said routine from the idea of weight loss and trust that I will be the weight I should be if I’m eating right and exercising and understanding that I will always be bigger than many people think I ought to be. (And many of these people are wearing white coats, which reminds me that I need to find a new doc now that my insurance has changed, which just makes me want to CRY because it’s hard to find a doctor who will not give me shit about my weight even though my blood pressure is low and my cholesterol is normal and I work out regularly. And I am prone to crying in doctor’s offices because I can bluff my way through my kids calling me squishy but not so much when it’s a person of some authority. I get kinda wimpy then and my high ideals end up puddling away into a stagnant pool of shame.)

I’m working to drown out voices like Grosskinsky’s and I’m working to head off the voices that will, without a doubt, be coming for my daughter.

So you know, when we get into semantics arguments or a totally civilized debate about manners, I am a little bit prone to feeling like people are deliberately not hearing me even though I know — and in every other blog type situation would accept — that it’s got to do with my writing and not with your reading. (In other words, that I’m writing it wrong. I know I’m writing it wrong but I feel more sensitive and defensive than I usually would.)

Anyway. I want to write this essay in part because writing things down helps me get rid of things and if I can write it all out loud then it won’t be so shitty. And at least dealing with the comments here will kind of ready me to deal with any comments I’ll get if it’s published. So I know that’s all good and everything but I’m still slightly miserable about it all. (Because i just wanted to write it and get it out and not have to debate it just yet — still fragile. Which how should you psychically know that? And honestly I’m not blaming any of y’all for saying anything that I got all hepped up about — just explaining my small insanity around this.)

(I’m not rereading this post because I’ll want to delete it so anything that doesn’t make sense will just have to not make sense and bad spelling and poorly placed punctuation will have to hang there, too. Also I am going to ask you to be kind, which is not something I usually ask from my commenters in regards to myself but honestly, this is one of the most difficult posts I’ve ever written and as I’ve said, I am particularly fragile around it. And now I’m not only frustrated with my work day but I am also marginally depressed.)

And he’s making spaghetti so you know how quickly that cooks.

A couple of people commented (spring and momartfully) about the use of the word “fat” and also whether or not it’s ok to “observe/evaluate” people’s bodies. This is convincing me to keep going on the essay.

Technically fat is a descriptor and I wouldn’t stop my kids from using other descriptors, from saying tall or red-headed or African American. Would you? If not, then why can’t they use fat?

I have told both of my kids that some people feel very self conscious about their body size and that the word fat can hurt some people’s feelings because (I’ve explained) too many of us don’t understand that healthy bodies come in all shapes and sizes. Fat, I tell them, is something some not very kind people use as an insult, which is ridiculous because fat is just one way to be. But be sensitive, I tell them. Even though you and I know that fat is just fine, out in the world people feel uncomfortable when we talk about body size be it thinness or fatness. WE know it’s ok and we can talk about it here at our house but out in the world? We need to be aware that people struggle with self-acceptance.

I think it’s akin to colorblind racism, (which is about white folks treating everyone the same i.e., as if they were white) to pretend that some people are not fat. If you ignore fatness (i.e., pretend that we are all thin), then you are devaluing people for being fat.

Think about it.

“The bathroom is over there, by where the tall woman is standing.”

“That guy is really attractive — the one who has the dark glasses on.”

“My friend will be waiting near the front. You’ll recognize her as the fat, pretty woman.”

It’s like — yikes! We can’t say FAT! We can’t say that out loud! But what if we could? What if fat was simply a descriptor? I mean, how else do we say it? We could call someone thin but call someone fat? We balk!

I am an advocate for talking to kids about subtext. Ever notice that all the women in commercials are thin? But commercials are trying to tell you that something is wrong with you — that your life isn’t organized or clean or pretty enough — because they want to make money off of you. Marketers deliberately ignore fat people. Media deliberately ignores fat people. Is that fair, I ask them? Should fat people take that on as a judgment of their value? No, of course not. Not anymore than people in wheelchairs should take on shame from the dearth of people in commercials using wheelchairs.

Fat is not a curse word. Fat does not equal ugly. It doesn’t equal stupid. It doesn’t equal rude. It’s a descriptor. I have blue eyes. I have brown hair that is streaked (increasingly) with white. I am fat.

Obviously in the wrong mouth or in the wrong intonation — ouch. Fat! I say, “Oh I’m round. I’m a little overweight. I’m chubby.” But the “F” word, my god. I’ll be honest with you (because when am I not?) — I want to pretend that people won’t notice that I’m fat. I am uncomfortable with the descriptor but that is because I am struggling to be comfortable with me. I hear “fat” and I hear all the other stuff under it like that I am greedy or lazy or out of control, none of which is true. I exercise. I eat reasonably (sometimes I eat too much but I know lots of skinny people who do, too). I’m anything but lazy.

My children can SEE that I’m fat. Am I supposed to make them pretend that I’m not just to save my feelings? Force them to lie by omission? Am I supposed to make them afraid of my fatness and — importantly — of their own possible fatness by being sensitive about them stating and seeing the obvious? It used to be that my worst fear was to weigh this much. I was fifteen and would think, “I would rather be dead!” I don’t want my own fifteen year olds to think that. I want them to know that you can be this fat and still be lovely and loved. And confident. And busy. And accomplished.

So I own — at least with them — my fatness. I say, “That’s right — I’m fat and beautiful.” I have a husband who says, “Hello gorgeous!” I get dressed up for work and Madison says, “You look pretty!” And I say, “Yes I do!”

Madison notes I have blue eyes. Yes! I do!

She notes that I have pink skin. Yes! I do!

She adds that I have a fat belly. Yes! I do!

These are all true. They are morally neutral.

And in fact? How much more important to own this for my brown-skinned daughter given the aforementioned colorblind racism. People may try to ignore traits that feel uncomfortable FOR THEM but those of us who have those traits? We need to own them.

There is nothing wrong with being fat. Now go read The Weight that Women Carry. (I will keep linking to this until y’all read it!)

(Now I really need to stop writing about this or I’ll lose momentum on the essay.)

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