Foster care for blogs

If this blog were a child, someone would have reported me to the social workers and little Bloggie would be living in foster care. For neglect, people, not abuse. It’s not possible to abuse a blog, but it is incredibly easy to neglect one. In kid terms, I’ve basically checked in on the wee little blog just often enough to make sure the TV is on and to drop off a box of dry Lucky Charms for Bloggie to eat right out of the box. And I’m sorry about that, Bloggie. I love you, I really do. Mommy is just really busy right now…I’ve got this job, and these volunteer commitments, and this whole other family… (which is why the blog-as-child analogy doesn’t really work).

So, I’m not your real Mommy, Bloggie. You were adopted. So there. Leave me alone.

…Except that I am your real Mommy, I made you exist and fed you just enough dry cereal to keep you alive. You didn’t ask to be born, Bloggie. I get it. Your existence is on me. And I know you miss the good old days, the days when my husband was gone and I just had the one kid and the one dog. Back then, you and I, Bloggie, we rocked, didn’t we? We had long nights together. We shared our deepest thoughts, often over red wine. We ruminated and solved the world’s problems. We looked at pictures together, and sometimes videos. We shared links to other websites and invited other people to join our conversations…Then another kid came along, and another dog and then my husband came home, and I got a real job — and now I just … I just pencil you in for the odd free moment here and there.

(Insert Telemundo soap opera background music and intense sobbing here)

I’m sorry, Bloggie. I really am. And I don’t know how to make it right — especially not now that I’m (cringing) pregnant again. There, I said it. I’m having another baby. There will be yet another drain on my time. I’m sure we can find a way to get through this, Bloggie, we always do. I just need you to be patient with me while I figure something out…

No, wait, sorry, I have to go… the other family is calling. They’ve forgotten that you exist and, let’s be honest, they never really cared about you anyway. And I think they may have run out of cereal…