Feb. 2, 2010, I announced to a readership of, well, me, that I was pregnant. This was going to be just one of the many â€œlook at how cute my kid isâ€ blogs with cheesy photos of a round me holding a onesie by my side at a baby shower. How droll.
Yeah. I didnâ€™t see those plot twists coming either.
And holy crap. People started reading! My words. This is very different than my initial pleas of â€œHey Mom. Mom. Mom? Mom. Read my blog post. Read it. Please?â€ (Like I said in this weekâ€™s Wineconed Wednesday, I still do a happy dance when I get a comment. Hint. Hint.)
This got me thinking. Neâ€™er did my young self ever murmur, â€œI want to be a blogger when I grow up! And maybe work in corporate America running a social media program.â€ But then again, my current livelihood didnâ€™t yet exist. How times and technology have changed.
Growing up, I wanted to be a lot of things.
When I was the muppets age, I wanted to be a cement truck.
I was fascinated by these vehicles with rotating centers. I made sure to point them out to my parents any time we passed on one the roads. Really, I had no interest in driving one of these molten-building beasts. I wanted to be the truck. Apparently this was not a presentable option.
My mom is a teacher. My aunt is a teacher. Teachers assign kids books to read.
This seemed like a good gig. I spent most of my elementary school years smugly knowing I would one day cultivate young minds. I lined up my Hot Wheels and Micro Machines and took attendance. Occasionally my collection of Popples and Wuzzles would get in on the third grade action. We had to stop at third because long division reared its ugly head in fourth.
That same year I first faced off with long division, my brother burst into my room one evening. â€œMomâ€™s taping Top Gun!â€ I loved that movie. I was completely entranced by the F-14 Tomcat. I wanted to be a fighter pilot. I wanted to be dangerous and daring. Iâ€™d hit the brakes and the bad guys would just fly by.
Interestingly enough, in those years leading up to the fall of the Berlin Wall, I was terrified of Soviet Russia. Why? Fighter pilot = good. Astronaut = bad. (I think I was still traumatized by the Challenger incident. A tragedy with a representative from my prior career choice.) Somehow Iâ€™d convinced myself that the USSR would have forced me into a horrendous life of cosmonaut servitude. (I never claimed to make use of logic or rationale.)
Come on now. Who hasn’t dreamt of being a train-hopping hobo with kerchief-stick at some point in time? No? Just Me? Well thenâ€¦
Usually it was while sulking in my bedroom after mouthing off to my parents. How sexy would life be on the open road. Jumping rail cars with nary a Chemistry test ever in sight. But like Edna from the Incredibles said, â€œThis is a hobo suit, darling. You can’t be seen in this. I won’t allow it. Fifteen years ago, maybe, but now? Feh!â€
My junior year of high school I took a film study class. We watched Broadcast News. I watched a frantic Holly Hunter fritter across the screen. Iâ€™m pretty sure we were supposed to be critiquing script or cinematography. But I was hooked on the news.
I wanted more. I wanted to report. I wanted to be the news. I was going to be a broadcast journalist. Metropolis â€“ look out. Lois Lane was on the move.
The common theme throughout all these career choices are the stories that result. Stories built my imagination from the moment I learned out to read. I kept my reporterâ€™s notebook like Harriet the Spy. I journaled my teenage years, lamenting the woes only a besotted high-schooler could empathize with, before promptly deciding my words were stupid and tearing them up.
Today, I tell stories for a living. Seriously. (Tomorrow a New York Times bestseller! Ok, fine. How about a few more Twitter followers?)
So, even though I never thought Iâ€™d live in the socialsphere, maybe I did know this is what Iâ€™d do as some point along my journey to grow up. And by the time I get there, I like to think Iâ€™ll have one hell of a story.
You have been reading my parenthood rants for a long time â€“ two years. Really now, what does that say about you? I love you all. (And I hope you still love me – even as you delve into the deep recesses of my “unique” mind.) Winecones and kisses!
So what do you want to be when you grow up? Discuss.