I've always admired certain writers out there in the blogosphere who seem able to be completely open and candid and honest about their lives. They are smart and witty, and with their honesty, they are able to make motherhood seem less confusing and give me hope that one day I'll get it all figured out.
But to be so open, so honest is also to be dangerous and potentially hurtful. That's the problem with this medium. It's wonderful for stress relief and it's great therapy, but you can't talk about certain things that you might want to get off your chest-- to send into the great bleakness of cyberspace like a letter burnt rather than sent. Because the letters I write here are, in a sense, sent. It takes extraordinary courage, in some ways, to write about the people that you love the most, because there is always that risk that they will not see the love in what you have written and be hurt by it.
So there are things I feel that I cannot blog about, because there are things I can't say face to face still. There are things I will probably never say face to face.
That honesty, I suppose, is not for me. But still, however silent, I send good wishes and desperate hopes to the powers that be.