I started blogging at the just-almost-tail-end of my first trimester with Barrett. If you started reading my blog from the get-go, you know that the whole blog pretty well centered around the conception of a tiny alien being forming in my stomach whom we dubbed, Snowball. It all started with a Snowball. And then, much like Snowball grew into Barrett. The blog sort of grew. It sort of morphed from a place where I just simply journaled the happenings of a first-time preggo to a place where I emptied my brain on a daily basis. Or a weekly basis. Or as much as I wanted to.
There were periods of time where I took mini-breaks. Sometimes a couple weeks. Sometimes a month. Sometimes more. But Baby on the Brehm continued as mine. With my content. And my very candid thoughts. My mind’s ramblings fill the pages of this web address. And it’s come to be one of my most prized possessions. And that may sound weird to many.
The blog hasn’t brought me fame. Or dolla bills y’all {at least, not many}. But it’s brought me hope. And community. Tears. And support. Friendship. And laughter. And hundreds of memories to keep forever as mine. Blogging has helped me wade through the murky waters of motherhood. Sometimes I’m just dipping my toes. And other times, I feel lost in the deep end. And the simple act of writing has brought me joy.
I always say that it’s for the kids… so they have some account of their childhood. And that’s definitely how it all began. For Snowball. But as much as it’s for them, it’s most certainly also for me. It’s the way that I stay in it. That I wrap my mind around the events of the day. The way I let go of the stress. Or the anxiety. The way that I share so that I can hear I am not alone. The way that I laugh at myself, on the daily. And the way that I, as a woman who is very social, very much loves work, finds a balance in the world of staying home. Because I pretend that, in a sense, blogging is a job. When in truth, I am my own employer. And outside of a few times a month, I have no real deadlines outside of the ones I impose on myself.
When I had the wee one, I had the chance to cross paths with the most lovely lady/nurse/girl/woman/superhero, Lora. That girl was a guardian angel to me the day that Harr was born. I will always hold her and a few other wonderful people in my heart for making H’s birth day a miraculous day, rather than a stressful, scary one. She made a lasting impact in ONE day. She influenced my life simply by showing up in it. Several months later, Lora passed my name along to her friend, Kara, a local writer, and we had the chance to talk about motherhood, life, and blogging — only to discover that we are living the same life:). She wrote a bit about our convo in a recent Omaha Magazine piece, which you can read here.
That piece prompted someone contacting me asking if I ever do sponsored posts. Followed by my most dreaded question:
What are your blog and social media followings?
Ugh.
I had actually just taken the plunge to have a Facebook page for the blog, three days prior to her email. And that felt like a big hairy deal. It felt verrrrry ballsy to me, for some odd reason. Like I was claiming I felt like the blog mattered. And that’s hard because it’s saying, “I think enough people want to read what I write”. Man, that felt sort of self-important. But I’d done it. So I had that. My IG is private. And my blog numbers are nothing to write home about. And every other day, I am fine with that. But the moment I read her question, I felt like I had to defend myself. Defend my insanely irrational love of blogging. A thing that takes time. Pays no bills. And when I really step back and look at it, is a weird hobby. I write… my thoughts… and put them on the INTERNET. THE WORLD WIDE WEB. Anyone and everyone can see my life, right here.
But I don’t ever look at it like that. First, it rarely occurs to me that anyone under the sun can look up the details of my life {I know… real smart, right?}. It also rarely occurs to me that people would care what I have to say. I look at the writing as a sort of passion. A sort of therapy. A way to chronicle this little life of mine. A way to connect. It means more to me than most things. But my followings? Eagads.
So I wrote back honestly…
I pretty much have no followers. I’ve never done sponsored posts… I’d be open to it. But they’d have to be real.
Okay, I didn’t say that exactly. But I very candidly shared the numbers. You can’t fake numbers. I wanted to tell her that I know about so and so’s colicky baby and that other person’s mspi diet problems. I wanted to tell her how I’d found comfort from so many other parents while in the NICU. I wanted to tell her about the friendships I have from blogging. And I wanted to tell her that the social media discussions are sometimes the clarity I need to see parenting in all its glory. And that blogging helps me be a better mama. Be better at my main gig. But I didnt. I shared the numbers. The numbers that, before anyone asked me for them, I had no issue with. I very much wanted to be honest about the fact that I’m not one to sugar coat the opinions I call mine. I think I was kind. And honest. In the way I always am. But I just felt defeated. The whole situation, for some reason, felt a bit demoralizing. I felt like someone was calling me to the carpet. Asking for my credentials to access my pipedream. And then, she didn’t email back, which I sort of expected. I wasn’t worthy of being “influential”. And for a day… I thought about quitting blogging. Before then, the numbers were basically irrelevant to me. But having to share them with someone else made them seem like the most important part of me. And when I look at the numbers, when I look at it in black and white, I suppose, it’s easy to feel a lack of importance.
I made mental pro/con lists. I really thought, maybe if this is all it’s going to be, it’s best to just throw in the towel. Maybe this is all just silly. And then I realized, you know when I never thought about it… about quitting? When 7 people read my posts. I never cared. What anyone thought of my writing chops. Or cared how many people read them. I wrote totally for the kids and for me. And that was it. When I started blogging, I didn’t have Facebook yet. I also wasn’t on Twitter. I never shared a post through Google+. No one was worried about the images being pinnable. I was just a mama-to-be writing my thoughts and that was it. And that was good enough.
But it feels like when you put so much of yourself into something, people want to know what your next steps are. How are you going to make a go of it? How are you going to become bigger? How will you grow your numbers.
And my answer to that is, I don’t know. Should I probably take every sponsored post offer I get in an effort to gain followers? Probably. Should I start following other bloggers and commenting on their pages so they’ll come like mine and click away? Probably. But do I want to do that? Nah.
I want to keep writing what I write. Sometimes funny. Sometimes thoughtsy. Sometimes frivolous. And mostly for me. And with the boys in mind. I want to be me. And if people are into that and think my words resonate with them, I am not going to lie, that is the ultimate payoff. And eventually, if people will buy a book I put together, that… well, that… that feels like my ultimate goal right now. While I don’t know how influential I can be with those being my only goals, I think I’m good with that. And so, I keep on plugging away. I keep writing what’s on my heart and in the pit of my stomach and tumbling in my brain and itching my belly with laughter. Because this gives me joy and contentment. And I think, no matter who we are, how big or how small, we just want to find joy and contentment. In some way. Somehow. Is that true for you?
And if my boys ever read this, I pray that they will know the difference between influence and followers. I hope that they will understand what it means to do something you love strictly because of the personal satisfaction it brings you. And I hope that they don’t hate their crazy mama for putting their whole existence on the internet. But mostly, I hope that they’ll know that it’s okay to dream. Even when you get big. Because that’s the only way those things might ever become reality.
There will always be people who make you question your direction. And I think their presence is sort of divine. They are put there to make you stand up for yourself and say this may be crazy but it’s my crazy. And when the clouds clear, I find myself thankful for them. For the way they make us stay true to ourselves.
And now I’ve gushed. And waxed on and on. But I think, the crux of it all… The thing I know most is that this does matter. The things we choose for ourselves, do matter. The jobs. The passions. The mothering. The not mothering. The loving. The fighting. The being. They matter. This matters because it matters to me. And for today, that’s enough.
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