Mommy Nani Booboo’s personal 2012 in a nutshell – without the nut… or shell.

 

2012 started with a pitiful bang for me as I was lost in motherhood, and struggling with depression.

The intense colic of my second born had me spinning in circles, and unwillingly participating in shopping cart roller derbys.

The new home we had moved into turned out to be a nightmare and during one of my many attempts to make our surroundings better, Arm and Hammer tried to kill me.

I battled my way through the first couple months of the year like only a parent with kids under five can.  Eventually, I was rewarded with the best 15 minutes in a long time.

After realizing motherhood has made me into a big fat liar, I needed to find a way to be courageously honest, and finally came clean to my husband and you about the Postpartum Psychosis I suffered with my first son.

2012 was a year that I was extremely grateful for the cyber-campfire that is blogging.  I wrote these words to you in a post about why I will never quit blogging.

A blogger strokes the keyboard, reaches through the computer screen, and taps you on the shoulder.  A personal blogger writes to make you feel, to make you laugh, to make you think.  A blogger (a good one) feeds your humanity.  And the best part of it all, the absolute best, is that you also feed mine.  It may actually be a tipped scale in my favor.

When I’m honest in my writing, it makes me feel human.  But when you, the readers respond… it makes me live.

Social media continued to be my addiction in 2012, and once again I attempted to control how everyone in the universe uses Twitter.

I discovered there was a Jenni Jekyll and a Jenni Hyde, but I’m not sure which one shouldn’t be allowed to drive.

I learned how to have non make up sex.

The New York Times forgot to ask me about the whole motherhood vs. feminism thing.

I briefly weighed in on the “mommy wars” and Time shmime.

I got to be on the review and scoring committee for the BlogHer’12 Voices Of The Year submissions.  It was an honor to read the kajillion posts, to be reminded of other parents in the trenches with me, and to have my eyes bleed from the goodness of  all the writing.

I was honored to participate in the Mother’s Day Rally over at Postpartum Progress.

I also finally realized I was the chosen one… at least when it comes to dirty vegetables

and I discovered one of my favorite things to do is write for the wayward googler.

I started Mommy Nani Booboo Tube.

However, 2012 was no different than any other year in my anxiety about things that may or may not exist.

I went to New York, attended a conference, met with old friends, broke my laptop, and had a cab driver try to kill me.

I finally became a cougar… for three seconds - big milestones this year…

and I’ve managed to keep my reckless baby alive.

My oldest finally felt the space left behind when grandparents live far away.

Someone asked me if I thought women could “have it all”.

 

 

The political climate of this past year eeked it’s way into this space, even though I first wanted to keep politics off this site.  It ended up being too important for me to remain silent about.

I flew a glider plane.
 

 

We decided to move… again… and downsize… and monkify.

The year decided not to go out like a lamb, and instead spun me and spit me out with Murphy’s Law in full effect, moving over the holidays, and a devastating tragedy for the nation that rattled every parent to the core.

My babies both got very sick with infections, the holidays were a blur, and I’m not sure my birthday happened… but I discovered that one can feel fantastic with absolutely no sleep.
 

 

So, 2012 – it’s been no bed of roses, but I’ve learned a lot from our relationship.

 

Let’s still be friends…

and 2013…

 

let’s be lovers.

 

JenniChiu

 

 

 

Things my online personality is not sharing with you.

 

When it comes to my humanity, I am frighteningly honest with you guys.  The keyboard somehow gives me the strength to share controversial personal choices or tell you of ghosts that haunt me.  I’ve let you in on childhood moments that forever leave their mark. I’m also guilty of the overshare and dialogued sex with my husband.  I’m always ready to give you my opinion on current events, and I’ve even told you stories my brain makes up on the spot, without my permission.

It may seem hard to believe, but I’m actually a somewhat private person in real life.  There are some things that I probably won’t write about, post about on Facebook, or tweet out into the world – either because I don’t want you have that information, or because it’s a boring life detail that I don’t see why you would want to know anyway.

Here are some things my online personality is not sharing with you.

  • My address.
  • My legal last name.
  • My husband or children’s real names.
  • Where my kids go to school.
  • What my big fights with Hot Nerd are about.
  • What my lunch looks like.
  • What my kids’ faces look like close up.
  • Where all my tattoos are.
  • A picture of my outfit today.
  • Real time results of a television talent competition. (That’s just rude.)
  • How long it’s been since I’ve really showered. (OK, maybe that’s a lie.)
  • What my bowel movements are like. (Well, there was that one time…)
  • I’ll just quit while I’m ahead.

 

In truth, if my dog takes a weird poop, I’ll probably post an artsy picture of it on Instagram.  You wont, however, find a super clear picture of my oldest son’s beautiful face.

The feelings and opinions I share are always incredibly honest.

The personal facts?  Not so much.

Everyone has their online sharing threshold.  I’m an extremely private person who overshares on a regular basis.

In fact, how do you know this is even what I look like?

 

 

 

 

It’s quite possible that it’s more like this:

 

 

 

You didn’t think I’d give you a clear shot of my face did you?

I don’t want you guys stalking me on the street.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Forget the Mommy Wars. A call to arms – greater problems to solve.

Yes, there is much fuss over “Mommy Wars”, and who has it harder – the “stay at home mom”, or the “work outside of the home mom”. If you can’t tell by the abuse of quotation marks in the previous sentence, I think it’s all a bunch of energy wasting, ridiculous, judgy vapor.

We judge other parents simply to make our own choices seem better. End of story.

I’d like to move on to an epidemic of greater proportions. There are millions of people suffering needlessly, and I feel that with your help, we have a good chance of eradicating the problem.

Let’s focus our energy on issues that have solutions.

Fuck the “Mommy Wars”.

I beg you to read THIS PAST POST…

and to take action.

Let’s get our priorities straight, people.

;

Why I’ll never quit blogging.

It takes a village…

not just to raise a child, but to exist…

to thrive as a human being.

Our techno-lifestyles have reduced our daily physical connections with others.  I never have to see an actual teller at a bank, and half the time I deal with voice automation on the telephone.  More and more of us live long distances from our parents and grandparents.  The majority of the people I know would send an email before entertaining the idea of making a phone call.

But we have a deep, primal need to connect.  Through the Internet and social media we are building our own cyber villages.  We share photos of our lives, we share the music that touches us, and we make each other laugh with our stupid jokes.

Sure, there are the sparse wackadoodles who are not who they say they are online, but I think most of us are just trying to connect… whether we admit it or not.  Almost all of us are using something as inhuman as a computer… to feed our humanity.

For me it’s blogging.

Personal blogs are becoming everyday reads for a large part of the population.  They’re not news articles, they’re not magazines… they’re personal – they have heart.  A journalist can give you the details, a blogger can make you cry… or pee your pants.

I am brave behind the keyboard.  I’ve shared with you a miscarriage, depression, and an early lesson in compassion.  And we’ve laughed together so hard… about idiot phone companies, scarring my kid at the OB’s office, and really bad bowel movements.

A blogger strokes the keyboard, reaches through the computer screen, and taps you on the shoulder.  A personal blogger writes to make you feel, to make you laugh, to make you think.  A blogger (a good one) feeds your humanity.  And the best part of it all, the absolute best, is that you also feed mine.  It may actually be a tipped scale in my favor.

When I’m honest in my writing, it makes me feel human.  But when you, the readers respond… it makes me live.

The comments, the emails, the tweets from the other side of the globe… it’s a testament to the power of human connection.  You people are my proof that at the core, we are all so much more alike than we think.

Whether you read or you write, blogs are the cyber campfire.  The stories, the laughter, the debates, the bearing witness… it connects us across vast distances.

You are my village…

and I thank you.

I am amazed that I’ve reached so many of you.

I never expected so many of you would reach me.

Keep the embers of the cyber campfire burning…

because I don’t think I’ll ever quit.

 

PS- This is from my About page:

****

Pain shared is pain lessened.

Laughter shared is laughter multiplied.

Blog or perish.

****

My boys.

 

 

Posts of Christmas past.

Christmas is here again and I find the spirit of the holidays has been pushed aside by a colicky baby, a sick household, and packing up our lives for a big move two days after Christmas.

So, I needed a refresher.  I tried to recall last Christmas… but my sleep deprived brain is slow and squeaky lately.  Luckily, I have a blog… with archives.

These two posts from last year have rekindled a little holiday cheer for me.

Where were you in your life last Christmas?

I invite you to enjoy my Posts from Christmas Past.

Because seriously, who knows what my Post from Christmas Present is gonna be like.

 

Christmas just got f*cking awesome.

All I wanted for Christmas was my pre-baby vagina back.

 

It’s amazing how much changes in a year… and how much really doesn’t.