Pieces of me, parts of her

Blogging as journaling. It was the concept that drew me to this medium. I have always been a journaler and was more disciplined about it when I knew that someone was reading. When all of this began, it was Whymommy that was reading. It kept us in touch, and I got to vent knowing that the words would be read by someone who would not judge every letter of every word.

Letting it all out in writing has been cathartic for me. Since my songwriting has slowed almost to a halt, blogging has taken its place. A weekly open mike night has been replace with Bloglines, and drama filled bands have been replaced with groups like Props and Pans and Team Whymommy. It has been a good shift. A comfortable one.

The thing about blogging though is that it isn't journaling. Letting it all out here invites anyone to read it. Invites anyone and everyone to cop a squat and get to know me.

This little corner of the internet has become a big enough part of my life that I made a decision last Friday. My momma has not known about this blog. I considered it a "private" place, which is funny now that I think about it. Since it is certainly not "private," it began to feel deceptive not to share it with her.

So I shared. Even though I knew there were posts where I vented about family, got pissed off at God (again), and said some pretty frank things about how I felt right at that moment, I shared. Sent her the link.

And then I got scared.

What if she got angry? What if I hurt her feelings? What if she hated the whole thing? What if she scolds me for being a potty mouth? What if she doesn't get that sometimes I let my fingers fly and hit publish just to get it all off my chest?

These fears of being less than my momma would want me to be came creeping out from somewhere deep below. They are my own fears. They are not supported by anything that she has ever said or done to me.

After hitting send on the email to her, and after wiping the sweat from my palms, I sat back and had a little chat with myself. Self, I said, do you want your mother to know you? Or do you want for your mother to know the pieces of you that you give her?

I'm a grown woman. Isn't it time that I let her know me? Isn't it time that I stopped worrying about what she will think if she knows that I smoked in my 20's, hated my first marriage, and just might not believe in heaven or hell?

After all. She has always told me that she loves me unconditionally.

Boy, am I putting that one to the test.

The thing is this. I've always wanted to be close to my momma. At the same time, I've never wanted to let her down. Besides, she probably knows all this stuff anyway. That momma instinct.

And one other thing. As our family grows, I'm sure there will be lots of baby postings. I'm going to be a bona fide mommmyblogger for whatever it's worth. She should get to see those.

Journal. Archive. Family history. Blog. Whatever it is, I'm glad she's here.

I'll try to warn you Momma, when I'm going to write a steamy post about some great sex with Guy. You can skip those posts if you like.

And for the rest of you, Momma has a blog too. You can visit her here if you like. She'll inspire you though. Remember, she's the Reverend Momma.